Quiet Desperation
by mossley
Summary: When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara. Finished.
1. Ch 1

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the quick beta. I thought I'd leave a short teaser for my next story up before I went off on vacation.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Standing in the police station hallway, Gil Grissom ignored the milling crowds passing him. Instead, his gaze bore through the glass wall of the sitting area, and an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu came over him. Sara Sidle sat in one of the chairs, her fingers interlaced tightly as she grimly stared forward.

Taking his glasses off, Grissom watched silently. He'd come as soon as he received the call from Detective Vartan, but he was hesitant to proceed. Unlike their previous rendezvous, she wasn't alone this time. A middle-aged woman paced the room in front of her, pausing occasionally to make angry hand gestures in Sara's direction.

Grissom shifted uncomfortably. He preferred to stay out of the personal lives of his staff, but as supervisor some things fell under his jurisdiction. And this wasn't just any member of his team. Sara held a special place for him, even if he was unable to act upon his feelings. He needed to step in, now, before things became worse.

"Sara," he called out as he leaned into the room. "Can I see you?"

"I'm a little busy right now. Can it wait?"

"No." His voice was firm, but not unfriendly. Grissom knew he was entering an emotional minefield, and he hoped to keep the damage to a minimum. Their relationship was in a nebulous state, and he wanted desperately to avoid causing any more damage to it.

"I'll be right back Mrs. Kenyon," Sara said before walking to the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

Cocking her head, she frowned at his insistent tone. "I'm talking to a victim's mother, trying to get some more information."

"Sara, no you're not."

She raised an eyebrow challengingly as her arms crossed her chest. "Excuse me?"

Wincing at the first emotional shrapnel, Grissom let out a small huff. "I've read the police report. There's no crime."

"The report's wrong."

"Do you have any proof to back that up?" he said, deliberately keeping his tone even to counter the heat of her voice.

With an embarrassed shrug, Sara looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Kenyon. The woman had stopped her pacing and was watching them with a mix of anger and fear. Grissom followed her eyes, and his expression softened.

In many ways, the life of Rachel Mathers mimicked Sara's. A brilliant student, the girl came from an exceedingly violent home. Until she entered foster care, she had witnessed a litany of abuse. The Kenyon family had taken Rachel in at the age of twelve. But unlike Sara, the girl never really recovered from her horrible early life, despite a foster family that clearly loved her.

"Rachel ran away all the time, Sara. There's nothing to indicate this time is any different," Grissom whispered softly. "She's nineteen now. It's not a crime for her to leave home. There's nothing we can do."

"It doesn't make sense." Sara turned back to him, her earlier anger muted to frustration. "Grissom, she'd gotten her life together. She was off drugs. She was an honor student at UNLV. Hell, she had a serious boyfriend. There's no reason for her to run off now."

"People are rarely logical. Who knows what demons she was battling?"

She turned her back to him, and he closed his eyes briefly. If anyone had an idea, it was Sara. Watching her reflection in the glass, a warmth enveloped him. Despite her own background, Sara had accomplished so much. She had all the reason in the world to be bitter and hateful, but she channeled her energy into work, making an effort to help others instead.

Her own pain fueled her empathy, and that had served Sara well over her career. But Grissom was concerned that it now clouded her judgment.

"Sara, let it go," he urged softly. "You can't help her. It's not up to you to save her. Rachel has to want to be helped."

She let out a sigh and regarded him coolly over her shoulder. "You think I'm identifying with the victim."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to escalate this, but he had to put an end to it. "She's not a victim. At least not now. Not of a crime."

Sara looked at him calmly. "I'm not being a martyr. I don't think I'm rescuing her. I'm telling you, Grissom. This case doesn't add up. Every instinct I have screams this is wrong. Rachel did not run away."

"Until there's evidence to support that, you have to let it go," he stated with finality. "We have too many other cases. Swing shift is backed up. I need you to help them."

"You're going to pull me off this case so …" she started, biting back the rest of her response. Her shoulders dropped in resignation, and she took a deep breath before nodding. "Fine. You're the boss. What do you suggest I say to Mrs. Kenyon? No one in Rachel's family believes she ran away this time, Grissom, and they are used to her doing it."

"I'll handle it." With what he hoped was a kind smile, he escorted her back into the waiting room. Mrs. Kenyon eyed him suspiciously.

"You're another prick who doesn't care about Rachel," she stated angrily.

Both CSIs started at the verbal attack, but the woman continued. "To you, Rachel is just another 'big and ugly' girl. I heard the comments that detective made when he was looking at her photos."

Grissom frowned, but he kept his ire in check. "Mrs. Kenyon? I've never even seen a picture of Rachel. What she looks like has no bearing on my decision. I understand you are upset…"

"Spare me the platitudes."

"Mrs. Kenyon," Sara said calmly. "Please."

"You're the only one in this place who has the courtesy to at least pretend to be interested about Rachel."

"Mrs. Kenyon," Grissom said forcefully. "There is no evidence that anything happened to your foster daughter. She has a history of running away."

"Don't you think I know that? Look, I know that Rachel wasn't an angel. There were days – a lot of days – when we wondered if we were in over our head with Rachel. But she's a good girl at heart. It's not her fault what happened to her when she was younger. It has messed up her life; she's moving beyond that. I'm telling you, as her mother, she didn't run away this time."

"Unfortunately, we have to rely on the evidence," Grissom noted.

"What evidence? She went to work that day. She went to a class she hated. If she was going to run away, why do that first?" Kenyon demanded. "Where's the note? She always – each and every time before – left a note."

"I can't explain why her actions are different this time. But our resources are limited. If any evidence comes up, we'll leave no stone unturned."

"If any evidence? Like what? Her body? A ransom note? Finding her in the emergency room? If you want to help, do something now, while there's still time to help her."

"It's out of my hands," Grissom finally stated. "Legally, Rachel is an adult. She's competent. We can't help you. I'm sorry."

Sara followed Kenyon into the hallway, but Grissom didn't watch their exchange. While he still had lingering doubts about Sara's attachment to the case, he was also beginning to wonder if she was right. Missing person cases usually weren't given a high priority, and it did sound like Vartan hadn't done his best on the case. Her instincts were usually accurate, too.

"What case am I working?" Sara asked evenly when she returned.

"Why don't you get some sleep? Shift doesn't start for another…"

"If it was so important you pulled me off this case, then I think I should start now."

"Sara," he growled, his irritation finally making an appearance. "There's no evidence of foul play."

"And this is totally out of character for Rachel."

"No crime happened."

Sara shook her head sadly before giving him a semi-contrite shrug. "I just hope you're right," she said, not waiting for a response before heading down the hallway.

Grissom leaned against the wall, frowning as Sara disappeared from his view. "So do I," he finally sighed.

_TBC_


	2. Ch 2

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the beta. While writing the first chapter, I changed the name of the OC, but didn't catch one occurrence of the old name. Sorry for the confusion, and I've fixed that mistake. I'd blame my beta, but she scares me.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Greg entered the lab room with a cautious air, giving Sara a half-wave when she looked up from the racks of vials in front of her. Grabbing a stool, he sat opposite of her, licking his lips.

"Just for the record, I didn't rat you out," he stated kindly, leaning forward over the lab bench.

"And just for the record, I didn't think you had," she replied, pausing in her work long enough to fix him with a sharp gaze. "If I had, you'd have known about it."

"That's true. I don't have any extra orifices."

A hint of a smile formed as Sara set down a vial and moved to the next one, carefully copying the information from its label to her log. While occasionally immature, Greg never left her guessing how he felt, or if there were any hidden meanings to his statements. The openness was a welcome change in her life, and it was a friendship she valued.

"Keep your orifices to yourself," she chided good-naturedly.

Greg grinned and tapped his fingers on the table top until she glared at him. "So, did you get in much trouble?"

Sara glanced at him and frowned. He sounded genuinely concerned. At first, she didn't understand why, but then she remembered that the nature of her 'past' with Grissom was a subject of open speculation in the lab. Nothing happened between them without someone trying to read some sort of meaning into it.

"I didn't get in any trouble. Grissom told me to drop it and work on this instead," she answered, waving a hand over the evidence surrounding her.

"And you're not pissed about getting pulled from a case?"

"I never said that," Sara replied, her smile doing little to mute her ire as she resumed work. For the past two hours, she'd been methodically adding reagents to the evidence vials in front of her, dutifully noting all reactions. The work was tedious – typical of their job – and while she concentrated on her task, Sara's mind still dwelled on the fate of Rachel Mathers.

In her professional opinion, the case had been dismissed too quickly. Rachel's disappearance was too abrupt. There were leads that could have been followed, people to interview. On top of that, Vartan acted unprofessionally, insulting the girl's appearance in front of her anxious family.

Personally, Grissom's refusal to trust her instincts gnawed at her. He'd never make supervisor of the year in any universe, but he'd given more leeway to the others in the past. His reasoning for pulling her out of the field and into the lab eluded her.

Lifting an eyebrow automatically, she silently corrected herself. He thought she was becoming personally involved in the case, that she identified too closely to the missing young woman. While his concern was nice, it angered her that he doubted her ability to remain objective.

Letting out a long breath, she put away the vial she held in her hand. Grissom wanted evidence, but she didn't have any to support her position. She didn't have that evidence because he hadn't let her collect it. He was an enigma, and as much as she loved mysteries, Sara was coming to the conclusion this was one that she'd never solve.

Sara moved to the next vial, giving her head a shake to clear it. Reaching for her pen, she found it missing. She looked up and saw Greg was still there, fiddling with the instrument nervously.

"What's bothering you, Greg?" Sara asked as she retrieved her pen and proceeded with her work.

"I don't get why you stayed on the case."

"Questioning my judgment?" she asked, but with a trace of humor.

"No! I don't understand why you did it. It's not like this chick hasn't pulled stunts like this before," he noted.

Sara let her shoulders roll slightly as she straightened up, working the kinks from her muscles. Focusing on the far wall, she considered how to answer his question. By nature, she was a scientist, a creature of logic, but her hesitance to let this case go came from a more primal response. It didn't _feel_ right. After drilling the need to follow the evidence into Greg, she wondered how to explain her instincts.

"You're right. Rachel did leave home several times in the past, but in each of those cases there was an outside event that triggered it. Something was going wrong at school, or in her personal life. She always left a note for her foster family to let them know how sorry she was. This time, Rachel just vanished. Her behavior isn't consistent."

"Yeah, but were not exactly talking about Ms. Mental Lee Stable here. Look at her childhood. That is one screwed up kid," Greg said, giving a small shrug when Sara slowly turned to stare at him. "Let's face it; she's carrying a lot of baggage. What could have screwed up her life more?"

"Watching her mother kill her father?" Sara asked softly, her voice almost in a whisper.

"Yeah, okay, that would definitely have sent her into loco land," he said, his humor dying at the harsh look directed his way. Bobbing his head from side to side, he held out his hands in surrender. "I know. I know. Not everyone that comes from abusive families ends up as maniacs, but come on. Do you really think someone from that type of background can ever completely get over what happened to them?"

"No. Probably not."

Sara saw Greg scratching his head in confusion, and she let out a sigh. Pity was the last thing she wanted, especially when it was self-inflicted. Her early life had been terrible, but dwelling on it served no purpose. Before he could ask any more questions, she shrugged at him.

"You stay on the job any length of time, you develop instincts. Things will jump out at you that don't fit."

"And you think that's what is going on here," he stated, not mentioning that no one else agreed with her.

"Exactly. Even if I am the only one who thinks so," she replied, an eyebrow raised in wry amusement. "Bit of advice, Greg. Stay away from the poker tables. You're too easy to read."

He rolled his head in a bashful way, and then started to fill her in on the latest office gossip before shift started. At the sound of footsteps, they both turned to the door. Grissom strolled into the lab quickly, handing the younger CSI a slip of paper with a flourish.

"A trick roll at the Monaco with your name on it."

"All by myself?" he asked in exaggerated excitement.

"I think you're ready," Grissom deadpanned.

Sara's mood lightened at Greg's animation. She grinned at him, cocking her head proudly. "My little CSI is growing up."

"Not so little," he corrected, waggling his eyebrows salaciously.

Sara's grin slid into a gutter-dwelling smirk. "Sorry, Greggo, but I have seen you."

"And I'll remind you that the water in that Hazmat shower was very cold," he claimed dramatically, pointing his finger at her.

"No," she said with an amused head shake, "it wasn't that cold."

Greg backed up, holding his hands to his chest in mock-pain. "Cruel, Sara. You're a cruel, cruel woman."

"Nope, just honest!"

Grissom swung his head between his two employees, puzzlement written on his features. He'd long since learned the truth about why the two of them had showered together, so the teasing about that didn't surprise him. But a twinge of jealousy still reared in his heart. Not that he felt threatened romantically; Greg and Sara were too different for him to believe they'd ever become involved. His envy came from the fact that they could so easily joke together.

Even before he pulled Sara off of the missing girl's case, things had been unsettled between them. He wasn't able to take the risks necessary to have a relationship with her, and in keeping his distance, he had hurt her. Learning about her childhood forced Grissom to take a hard look at his behavior. At the time, he didn't understand the full impact of his actions, but he couldn't ignore the resulting damage now.

And he didn't know how to repair it. Nothing had changed; a relationship with her could still destroy his career. For too many years, his job was all that he'd had, and Grissom had focused all his energy into it. His self-worth was measured in terms of his professional reputation, and he was reluctant to throw it all away.

In a dark recess of his mind, Grissom grudgingly acknowledged the fear that also factored into his decisions. If he ever let her in, he'd never want to let her go. And if she left on her own, he didn't know how he'd recover. Considering his lack of personal skills, he had serious doubts about his ability to hold onto her. It was too risky, on too many levels.

Especially now that it seemed like she had finally given up on him. Turning back to Sara, Grissom's concerns were strengthened when her previous grin morphed into a forced smile. Clearly, her anger at being taken off the non-case remained.

"What do you have for me?" she asked politely.

"Nothing. It's a very slow night," Grissom said, giving a half-apologetic shrug when she raised an eyebrow heatedly at him. "Consider it the calm before the storm."

"Right."

"I'm stuck in here, too."

His tone must have carried some meaning, because she gave him a semi-contrite smile. Grissom's eyebrow rose as he tried to gauge her reaction.

"You and I are on standby if anything else comes in, but we need to get through as much as this backlog as possible. Day and swing shifts have cases piling up waiting on their results. Three of the lab techs from those two shifts just quit," he explained.

"Yeah," Sara said, swinging around and starting back to work. "A private lab opened outside of Henderson."

"We have the best lab in the country. Why would anyone want to leave?" he asked, his confusion evident.

"The new lab doesn't handle court evidence. Less pressure, less overtime, and they have better benefits," she answered.

Grissom's brow furrowed deeply. "And you know all of this how?"

Sara rolled her eyes as she picked up another vial. "People have been talking about it around here for weeks – who was applying, who was considering it. You need to hang out more in the break room. You might learn something."

"You haven't applied?"

"No. Don't worry. I don't have a life."

Rubbing his beard, Grissom silently digested her comments. She'd spoken lightly, with no hint of reproach, but her words nagged him. He wanted her to have a life outside of work, but he couldn't provide it. And he didn't want her to have it with anyone else.

Sara could be the storm that destroyed him, or the shelter that saved him, but discovering which one meant Grissom had to enter an emotional maelstrom that he lacked the ability to navigate. Instead, he skirted the edges, neither able to escape nor move forward, trapped in a growing inner turmoil.

"I'll be in Layout," Grissom said after a minute. "I'll let you know if anything else comes in tonight."

"Okay."

Despite his promise, both of them spent the rest of the shift in the lab, making a noticeable dint in the backlog of work. Just as he was packing his briefcase to head home, Ecklie entered his office.

"Conrad, I didn't think you woke up this early."

The lab's assistant director ignored the barb, and closed the door behind him. Grissom's head went up, and he regarded the other man questioningly.

"You're under review," Ecklie said without preamble. "Michael and Elisa Kenyon have filed a formal complaint against the department, alleging their foster daughter's case was handled improperly."

Grissom scrunched his face in confusion. His involvement in the case had been minimal at best. He'd only met the woman the previous afternoon, and complaints took time to work through the system. "What did I do?"

"Mrs. Kenyon alleges you were unprofessional."

"She should talk," Grissom groused, letting out a disgusted sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose while he counted to ten. "Their foster daughter left them. They are worried. I can understand that. Let them file whatever they want. The police report ruled out foul play in her disappearance."

"Yes, well, Detective Vartan is under review as well."

Grissom shoved the last of his files into his briefcase. "Isn't this a bit extreme for a pair of upset parents?"

"Considering we're getting pressure on this, I'd say you managed to piss off a pair of irate parents with some strong political connections. I want a full report of what you did on my desk before I go home tonight."

"I didn't do anything," Grissom stated, rounding the corner of his desk angrily. That explained why the complaint was being processed so quickly, but it didn't help his mood. Little got under his skin as much as political interference into his work.

"Then it should be a very short report," Ecklie replied. "Get Catherine to help you."

"Why would I need to do that?"

"Because they have connections. If you did nothing wrong, then our review will show that. From what I've seen of the police report, it looks like Vartan made the right call on this case, but he had to be a prick with the family. He'll probably be sent to sensitivity training. Again," Ecklie sighed. "Look. We both know you shoot yourself in the foot every time a case has anything remotely political involved. I'll leave a message with Catherine to expect to hear from you."

Grissom left his office without responding, barreling around the corner. A migraine threatened, and he wanted to be home before it started. It was impossible to completely escape the political side of their job, but he did his best to avoid it. He had done nothing worthy of a review. It was insulting that he had to go through the motions.

Seeing Sara exiting a room in front of him, he bitterly noted that this was the job he wanted instead of her. When the new sheriff followed her out of the room, Grissom stopped short. She saw him, and quickly dropped her head, refusing to meet his stare. He could tell she was uncomfortable, and that stroked his own growing unease.

"Thank you, Sara, for your cooperation. Internal investigations are never easy, but I appreciate your candor. We'll let you know if we have any more questions for you," the sheriff told her.

She looked up, and their gazes locked. Grissom was unable to read her expression. She broke contact when Ecklie called out her name to join him. Sara paused long enough to look back over her shoulder, this time the sadness was clear in her eyes.

Grissom stood silently as she walked away, and then he resumed his trek to his car, his steps slowed by pain. Any hopes of getting home before his migraine exploded were gone.

_TBC_


	3. Ch 3

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Burked and Ann for the beta, and to everyone who's reviewed. It's always appreciated.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

The pounding eventually became too much for Grissom to ignore, echoing and merging with the throbbing in his head. Painfully, he sat up and got off his couch, swearing slightly under his breath as he made his way to the front door. The woman waiting there did little to help his mood.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, in too much pain to mask his irritation. Waving her in, he headed back to his couch.

"Well, good afternoon, to you, too," Catherine said amiably, following him inside and letting the door close loudly. Seeing him wince at the noise, she nodded in understanding. "Migraine?"

"Yes. So I'm not exactly in the mood for a social visit."

"When are you ever social?" she mused rhetorically, making a beeline to his kitchen. After grabbing drinks from his fridge, Catherine gave him a bottle of water and took a seat in his living room. "And this isn't a social visit."

"What's up?"

"Your report," she prompted, a smile forming at his lost expression. "The one Ecklie wants today. What did you do to get yourself in trouble this time?"

Grissom lay back down, resting an arm over his eyes. Her light tone didn't match his indignation. "It's not like I blew up the lab or compromised a case," he groused angrily.

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"I didn't do anything."

Catherine took a sip of her soda, and cocked her head at him in disbelief. "So why am I here? Something had to happen."

He let out a long sigh, reviewing the events in his mind before explaining what had happened. "Sara and Greg were working a missing persons case. Vartan ruled the young woman a runaway. She has a history of it. Sara disagreed, and she was talking to the foster mother when I told her she had to drop the case. To help your shift. I went back in to tell Mrs. Kenyon that I was reassigning Sara. As soon as I walked in the door, she called me a prick."

"What prompted that?"

"Nothing!"

"Did Sara make a scene when you told her to drop it?"

"No."

"Right," Catherine muttered.

Grissom lifted his arm from his eyes, and he turned his head towards her slowly. The venom in her voice easily cut through his mental fog. Sitting up, he stared at her, his expression demanding an explanation.

"Come on, we both know she has a temper, and that she gets involved with certain cases. She didn't hesitate to talk to the sheriff or Ecklie. Hell, I'm surprised she isn't doing the investigation herself. She certainly has enough practice at it."

Blinking occasionally, Grissom stared across the room. He knew Sara and Catherine weren't best friends, but he never suspected the depth of animosity that existed, at least on Catherine's part. How long had this been simmering?

"Sara investigated Warrick, both times, because I asked her to," he pointed out.

"That's because you knew the rest of us would tell you where to stick your damn investigation!"

Grissom closed his eyes. The others didn't seem to hold any grudges against her because of the investigations into Warrick's gambling problem. At least not now. For the first time, he considered that he'd put Sara in a very uncomfortable position. She'd never complained, but, as he was learning, she kept a lot to herself.

With a resigned air, he added it to his mental checklist. It served double-duty, measuring all the things that he'd done to hurt Sara, and acting as a reminder of why he shouldn't get involved with her. Eventually that list would get too long, and she'd leave him.

Paradoxically, the longer the list became, the more he wanted to discard his caution, and try to make things up to her. While that was destined to remain a fantasy, he could stand up for her now.

"No, I asked Sara to handle it because I trusted her objectivity. I knew she would be honest, no matter what the outcome. She wouldn't let her emotions interfere with the assignment. And right now, I have to say I think I made the right decision."

Catherine didn't respond immediately, instead looking away to stare at a butterfly display. After a second, she let out a sigh and rolled her shoulders. "I don't like seeing my friends getting screwed over," she explained.

"Neither do I," Grissom replied pointedly.

His hands came up to rub his temples slowly. The changing relationship with Catherine continued to bother him. Their friendship was something that he used to rely on, but the strains were increasing. Part of him wondered when she had changed, while another part considered that he'd never noticed this part of her personality before.

Neither option set well with him.

To his surprise, Catherine grinned broadly at his response. "Call me crazy, but I don't think that's happening," she purred cryptically.

Unable – or willing – to comprehend that statement, Grissom lay back down.

"Have you ever had any dealings with Mrs. Kenyon before? Did you handle one of the kid's other disappearances?" Catherine asked, resuming the interview.

"I don't think so."

"Well, something pissed her off."

"Besides Vartan calling her daughter names where the family could overhear him?"

Catherine sat back in her chair, tapping her pen against her notepad. When Grissom slowly turned his head towards her and glared, she flashed him a quick smile before stopping. "Sounds like you got caught in the crossfire when the shit hit the fan."

"Your command of the English language notwithstanding, that's what I said. I didn't do anything."

She grinned at him, but it quickly became strained. Putting her notes away, she leaned forward. "Gil, something's up. The sheriff is investigating this himself. They called me in to help write your report."

"It's politics," he said dismissively.

"And you suck at it."

"I'm not running for office."

"So?" Catherine sighed in exasperation.

Grissom let out an angry huff. "I'm a scientist. My job is to process the evidence. I do that, to the best of my abilities every day. For years. Now, some mother who's friends with some big shot gets upset, and my record is meaningless."

"Maybe politics is the wrong word. Call it group dynamics. You aren't a hermit, Gil. You can't lock yourself in your office with your buggy friends. We deal with people every day. Everything we say or do – or don't say or do – has an impact on others. You can hurt someone without realizing is. You have to learn how to deal with people."

Grissom leaned back in his sofa, stifling a groan. Her words struck him as uncomfortably accurate, but not in a professional sense. He was certain he'd done nothing wrong in the way he handled this particular case. "They aren't going to fire me."

"Glad to see you have a healthy ego."

"Conrad likes to provoke me, but his main focus is the lab's reputation. Forensic entomologists are rare. They aren't going to fire me," he repeated.

Catherine gathered her things, tossing her empty soda can away. Watching him on the couch, she considered how to reach him. He truly was politically tone deaf, but even he had to realize this went beyond typical office stuff. "I'll write this up, and e-mail you a copy. You can send that to Ecklie. He's serious, Gil. I'll call you to make sure you get it off in time."

"Your concern is touching, but unnecessary."

"I told you, I don't like to see my friends getting screwed over," she said, giving him a parting smile before leaving him alone.

* * *

"Hey."

At the sound of Sara's voice, Grissom looked up from his paperwork. She leaned against his doorframe, her arms wrapped loosely around herself. Despite her brief smile, he could tell she was uncomfortable. It was a feeling he could relate to.

"Sara."

"I, uh, just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For what's happening."

"It's not your fault," Grissom said, hoping he sounded convincing. The lingering effects of his migraine were dying off, but he knew it would be a long time before his ire at having his reputation questioned vanished.

From the way she dropped her head briefly, he doubted he'd been successful. There was a hint of fire in her eyes when she looked back up, but she closed it down quickly. The fact she was hiding her emotional state from him bothered Grissom more than her residual anger.

"What do you have for me tonight?" she asked, her voice professional but cool.

He picked up the assignment slip from his desk, thumbing it cautiously. His initial response was to fall back on his standby tactics – distance himself from Sara. But he'd promised himself that he wouldn't do that again, and despite his own unease, he met her gaze head on.

"We have a robbery at a grocery store. I'll be ready in a minute. Tell Greg to help with the lab work tonight."

When they walked to the parking lot, Grissom surprised Sara by tossing her the keys. Sitting in the passenger seat, he handed her the address and closed his eyes against the bright city lights. He had a feeling his headache would grow again before this evening was over, and he was taking any precautions he could.

"I reviewed Rachel Mathers' case," he told her after a minute. He'd hoped that another case would focus Sara's attention away from the missing girl, but Grissom doubted it would be that easy.

"You did?"

"Yes. Since entering foster care, she ran way thirteen times."

"Seventeen," Sara corrected him, unfazed by his statement. "Four times, the Kenyons found her without needing to call the police."

Grissom raised an eyebrow before holding his cold bottle of water to his forehead.

"She hadn't received any threats from people at her school or at work," he continued, hoping logic would prevail.

"Nope, everything was going well there. That's why it's odd she would leave home now. Troubles always prompted her to run away the other times."

"Some people are very good at hiding secrets," he noted pointedly. "Even from people they've known for years."

"Not the same. Rachel had people that loved her, that she could trust."

Grissom closed his eyes painfully.

"Maybe it was something she didn't want to share with them," he ventured.

"You don't get it."

"Apparently not."

"You have no idea what it's like," Sara said softly after being quiet for a moment. "There's no one that gives a damn what happens to you. To the state, you're a number, some problem kid they have to deal with. Most of the families view you as a paycheck, something they have to put up with to get paid."

Grissom opened his eyes, and turned to stare at her while he sat up straight. Sara was tapping the steering wheel crossly, but he didn't ask her to stop. Her facial muscles twitched as she fought for control, but the fire had returned to her eyes.

"Sara, I thought you weren't personally involved with this case," he said kindly.

"I'm not. God! I know what she's going through, okay? That doesn't mean I'm not objective. If we ever get a case with a missing, anti-social entomologist, I'd listen to what you had to say."

Closing his eyes against the renewed hammering inside his skull, he sank back against the seat. "I am listening."

"Right."

Grissom was thinking of ways to reroute the conversation when she let out an angry sigh.

"You just want someone to care," Sara said in a harsh voice. "Just to pay attention to you, to acknowledge you. To make you feel like you're really a human being. And you don't care what you have to go through to get that. It's stupid, and deep down, you know it and you hate yourself for it, but you still put up with all kinds of shit just to get that one word of praise or that one caring touch."

Pinching his nose, Grissom dropped his head guiltily as his mental checklist grew. She never mentioned names, but he suspected who she meant. And he couldn't ignore the pain evident in her voice, no matter how tightly she tried to rein it in.

"And if you find someone that actually cares? God, there's nothing you wouldn't do for that person. Rachel had that," Sara stated firmly, her attention focused on the road. She turned sharply into the store's parking lot. "There's no way in hell that she just left."

She got out of the Denali before he had a chance to respond. Silently, Grissom followed her, his mind swirling as it tried to comprehend all that she'd revealed. It hurt to think what she went through as a child, but not nearly as much as the thought that she was speaking of recent events.

"You have got to be shitting me!" Sara muttered.

Grissom moved beside her, and his eyebrow rose slowly. Plans of distracting Sara with a detailed case faded as he looked at the rear bumper at their feet. A twisted metal cable looped around it near the license plate.

"Do you think they were too dumb to steal that car?" she added.

"Probably," Grissom admitted, moving with her as she followed the cable into the store. It led them directly to an ATM machine at the front of the building.

"Witnesses say a kid dropped the cable over the ATM," said the officer who joined them. "They didn't realize it was bolted to the floor. It pulled off the bumper when they tried to drive away. We already have a patrol car headed to the owner's house."

Grissom went to work photographing the evidence while Sara started fingerprinting. Every few minutes, he paused to flash her a concerned look, but he never caught her eye. After forty-five minutes, he suspected she was deliberately avoiding him. Telling himself that he was respecting her privacy, Grissom continued to work in silence.

When the officer returned to tell them that a deputy had pulled over the would-be-robbers for driving without a license plate, Grissom noted Sara's embarrassed expression before she walked away from him. Clearly, she regretted her outburst. As much as her words hurt, it bothered him more that she kept so much from him.

They had gathered and bagged most of the evidence, and they were waiting for auto detail to show up to take away the bumper, when Sara's cell phone rang. Grissom picked up the last of the evidence bags to take to the Denali when her voice caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.

"Don't touch anything. Don't let anyone handle it. I'm on my way. I'll call dispatch to send a detective."

Sara hung up, and she turned to Grissom, anger rolling off her body.

"That was Elisa Kenyon. A ransom note just came."

_TBC_


	4. Ch 4

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Burked and Ann for the beta.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 4 **

With his lips pursed and fingers drumming the steering wheel absentmindedly, Grissom tried to order his thoughts as he approached the Kenyon's home. Immediately after the call, he sent Sara directly there, while he finished processing their robbery case. When auto detail finally arrived, he caught a ride back to the lab and stored their evidence. His head ached, and he considered staying in the lab, but Grissom knew this was something he had to face.

Sara was angry. There was no doubt about that, but he didn't completely understand why. He knew she became involved in cases; she was very empathetic. They'd disagreed professionally in the past, but never with this level of response. There was more going on, and that unsettled Grissom. He couldn't ignore the potential this case had to hurt her – and their fragile relationship.

Sara's words had stung, and to his surprise, the pain wasn't fading. He couldn't ignore what she implied; she realized it had been a mistake to fall for him. Did she really hate herself for caring about him? That thought bothered Grissom too deeply, and he buried it.

Arriving at the house, he frowned severely. Reporters and television cameras roamed behind the police tape. It was unusual; typically, kidnappers didn't want media attention. The exposure made it harder for them to operate, and they insisted on no press coverage. His expression worsened when he overheard talk of a reward being offered.

"Dr. Grissom!"

Hearing his name shouted, he turned but didn't slow his pace. Recognizing the woman running towards him, Grissom wished he hadn't reacted. Squaring his shoulders, he continued to the relative safety of the police tape.

"Lynda Darby, Las Vegas Tribune. How do you respond to the Kenyons' allegations that you mishandled their foster daughter's disappearance?"

Grissom paused in mid-step, but years of training allowed him to push past his anger. "We treated this case the same as any other."

"Rachel Mathers has been missing for days, and no one did anything. Doesn't that reflect badly on your department as a whole, then?"

"No comment," he answered with a glare, unsuccessfully keeping his irritation under control.

The other reporters, now aware of his presence, tried to converge on him. Hearing shouted references to 'complaint' and 'incompetence', his headache intensified. Grissom flexed his hands angrily; he valued his reputation more than nearly anything, and having it disparaged so easily infuriated him.

"I should have guessed," a woman's voice said in disgust.

Grissom stopped, turning to face Mrs. Kenyon. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, acutely aware of the herd of reporters approaching.

"The press coverage brought you out," she continued. "Why didn't you say so before? I could have gotten someone to get you on television."

"Actually, I prefer it when the media isn't involved. It only complicates our job," he said with more heat than he intended.

"Right. That's why you ignored Rachel before."

"Where is CSI Sidle?" he asked with a forced calmness, turning on his heel after she pointed at the house. He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape gladly, making his way to the house and finding Sara in the living room.

"The ransom note was left on the front door. No one saw anything. The family handled it. They read it, and then they called me. I've already gotten exemplars from them, so we can rule out their prints," Sara said before he had a chance to greet her.

"That's to be expected," he said neutrally, noting the way her attention lingered on a framed photo. It was a family portrait, with both adults embracing Rachel. Sara's gloved fingers traced over the picture almost longingly.

"The note's very specific."

"How so?"

"The kidnapper wants three hundred and eighty seven thousand dollars, in cash, for Rachel's return. More details to follow."

"That is … unusual," Grissom agreed.

"I know," Sara replied, giving a brief headshake as she set down the photo. "Why such a specific amount? It's weird. And the family is offering the same amount to anyone that comes forward with information that'll help find her."

"So I've heard."

"What do you expect?" Sara asked, her anger making an outward appearance. "They love her. They want to find her."

"I know," Grissom sighed. While he could understand the family's concern, cash also brought out every crackpot in the tri-state area. "And you know how much they just complicated our case."

Sara turned slowly to stare at him, one eyebrow raised. "Our?"

Grissom closed his eyes briefly, reaching his hand up to massage his temple. If he weren't careful, his anger would only trigger an outburst from her. "It's your case. I'm here to help. What still needs to be done?"

"I haven't started around back yet," she said, giving him a half-hearted smile.

He nodded, unable to think of anything helpful to say. Sara was upset, but it wasn't affecting her work. She would want results, not banal words. With a last wistful look over his shoulder, Grissom retreated to the rear of the house.

* * *

The sun rose long before they made it back to the lab, depositing various bags of evidence with the techs for processing. Grissom went to his office to check on the status of his other cases, and he was surprised when Ecklie stormed in. 

"Do you like making trouble for yourself?" Ecklie asked in exasperation.

"No," Grissom answered, sitting in his chair with a resigned sigh. Picking up a backlog of reports, he quickly signed off on them.

"I just got off the phone with Burdick. He wasn't amused to see you on the news. What were you doing?"

"Investigating a crime? I'm pretty sure that's what you pay me to do."

"Gil," Ecklie groaned. "The Kenyons filed a complaint against you. Then you go to their house, and get in an argument with the mother. It wasn't even your case. Don't you see the trouble?"

Grissom set his pen down slowly, blinking in confusion. A camera must have caught his conversation with Mrs. Kenyon, but it wasn't a fight. Of course, it would have been too far away for audio, and the reporter could have interpreted it that way.

"No, I don't. Their complaint is baseless, a fact you essentially admitted yesterday. I wrapped up one scene, and then I went to help Sara process another. And I didn't argue with the mother."

"Be careful."

Grissom lifted his head up suddenly. Leaning back in his chair, he cocked his head and stared inquisitively at Ecklie. He'd actually sounded concerned.

"I'm doing my job," he said.

"So am I," Ecklie shot back. "And that includes keeping you out of trouble. The Kenyons know someone who can put pressure on the sheriff. Stay away from them."

After Ecklie left, Grissom tossed his glasses on the desk, reaching his hands up to rub his face wearily. He hated this aspect of the job, and usually ignored it. His responsibility was to solve crimes; he didn't care whose toes he stepped on if they were in his way.

A facial muscle ticked as he recalled Sara's anger. What had she said to Burdick and Ecklie during their questioning? He'd meant what he said to Catherine; he did trust Sara's impartiality, but she also strongly believed he'd been wrong. And in hindsight, it appeared she had been correct.

After signing off on a few more reports, he headed down the hallway to check on the case's progress. Overhearing Greg's voice, Grissom followed the sound to the Layout Room. Sara sat at the front of the table, photos and evidence neatly arranged around her. He noticed her discomfort immediately, but didn't react besides cocking his head as he took a seat nearby.

"Well, I checked the people the girl used to hang with, but they said they haven't seen her," Greg was saying, "but they aren't what you'd call Boy Scouts. I don't know how honest they are."

"I've put in a request for the phone records, but from what her parents said, Rachel had cleaned up her act. She hasn't been around them for ages," Sara added.

"What, they're part of her wild past?"

She shrugged as she picked up report. "Who hasn't done something they regretted later?"

"Not me! My conscience is clear."

"Greg, 'clear' and 'lack of' aren't synonyms."

Once again, the ease with which the two of them joked struck Grissom. He broodingly recalled the easy banter and innuendo he'd shared with Sara, but he also understood why he'd had to stop it before it'd led to more.

"So, Sara Sidle was a wild thang," Greg said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. "When are you going to tell me how you got that tattoo?"

Grissom snapped his head up, ignoring the resulting pain. He never knew Sara had a tattoo. Clothing covered it, wherever it was, and he recalled the shower Greg had shared with Sara. That sent his mind on a dangerous inventory.

"When hell freezes over," she answered, frowning as she checked a report. "The only prints on the ransom note were from Michael and Elisa Kenyon."

"What I want to know is where they got that kind of money," Greg said. "They're in your basic white bread, middle-class neighborhood."

"You're more likely to find a millionaire there than in Summerlin," Grissom noted.

The younger CSI screwed up his face in confusion. "And the punch line is?"

"There isn't one. In the early seventies, a pair of researchers began a twenty-year study on millionaires in the US. Despite common assumptions, most millionaires are self-made, typically self-employed in professions like building contractors, much like the Kenyons."

"Huh?"

"Most of the people that live in the mansions, drive the flashy cars don't have any real wealth. They spend all the money they make. People like the Kenyons live within their means, invest wisely, and they are rich," Grissom explained. "Most people will make a few million dollars over the course of their careers, but they don't spend it wisely. They buy on credit instead of saving for a year or two and paying cash."

"Where's the fun in that?" Greg asked with a comic expression. "All save and no fun makes Griss, uh, Greg a boring boy."

"You aren't paying for your amusements for years after they're obsolete."

"But I'll have more to show for my life than a bank balance. And you must be loaded then."

"What else do we have?" Grissom asked, frowning at Greg's comment.

"I did a Lexis search," Sara said, her voice oddly tight. "One of the Kenyon's suppliers sent them a defective batch of materials, and that screwed up one of their projects. They sued. They got a three hundred and eighty seven thousand dollar settlement three weeks ago."

Grissom raised an eyebrow slowly. Sara met his gaze for a moment before dropping her head.

"That answers that question," Greg said. "That's the exact amount in the ransom note. And no one saw anything. There're no prints on the doorbell, the door or the railings."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Grissom said, once again fixing Sara with a pointed look.

"It sounds like whoever did this was familiar with the family," Greg said, looking in confusion between his colleagues. Before he could ask what was going on, Ronnie knocked at the door. He walked in and handed Sara two bagged pieces of paper.

"You were right. Both samples are the same type of paper. It's a high-quality cotton rag. You won't find something like that anywhere; you have to special order it from a stationary supply company."

"The ink?"

"Different colors, but the same company manufactures both."

"Thanks, Ronnie."

"No problem," he said, giving them a wave before leaving.

Grissom waited while Sara leaned back in her chair, staring at the floor and wrapping her arms around her midsection. When she looked up, he detected a hint of anger mixed with embarrassment.

"The first piece of paper is the ransom note," she explained. "The second is this list of contacts Mrs. Kenyon gave me when we first went to investigate Rachel's disappearance. She'd written down Rachel's schedule for the day, where she should have been and when."

"The ransom note was written on her stationary! Get out!" Greg exhaled. "They broke into the house to leave the note?"

"That's one possibility," Grissom said slowly, raising an eyebrow in challenge as he turned to Sara.

"The Kenyons left the note," she said, chewing her lip before letting out a sigh. "No one was paying any attention to Rachel, so they left the note so it'd get investigated."

Greg let out a low whistle. "What's that? Filing a false police report? That's a felony."

"Even if the D.A. presses charges, they're probably thinking no jury would convict them. Any parent in their place would have done the same thing," Sara said.

"And by attacking the lab's credibility, they figured they could get media attention as well," Grissom added harshly. "Greg, go find Hodges. See if Trace found anything."

"Right," he said, darting his eyes between them with a worried expression.

Grissom stood up, and walked slowly to the door. He closed it quietly, pausing before he turned around. When he did, Sara met his gaze unflinchingly.

"Don't tell me to drop this case."

"What case?" he asked sharply.

"She's missing, Grissom!"

"Why are you angry?"

"Because cases aren't treated equally. I hate hypocrisy."

"What hypocrisy?"

Sara looked up at him with a harsh glare. "Julie Waters." She let out a sigh when he shook his head. "The showgirl? She went missing last year. Nick and I had the case before you took it from us so Cath could run with it. You'd have thought it was the only crime in Vegas with all the attention it had."

"And she didn't have a history of running away."

"And Julie was 'the pretty one'."

"You know that has nothing to do with it," Grissom growled.

"Bullshit."

He leaned back in his chair, his mouth dropping open in surprise. How could she think he was that shallow? "I understand you're upset," he began.

"Come on!" Sara said, hopping out of her chair as she began to pace the room. "The media ran with the story, and the department followed suit. We get people missing all the time, and they don't get the attention that case did. But she was photogenic, so she got more notice."

"I agree," he said, trying to stay calm. "Sometimes a case gets more exposure than it deserves, and the sheriff reacts to the publicity. But that has no bearing on my decisions."

"Right. Unless you disagree with the decision. That's why we investigated the electrocuted guy even after Doc ruled it and the sheriff told you to drop it. And what do you call the Cheshire murder?"

Grissom rubbed his temple, unsuccessfully trying to ease the hammering inside of his skull. "What was that?"

"You don't even remember. Why does that surprise me?" Sara said, never pausing in her pacing. "Again, last year. You yanked me from an active murder case to help Warrick when his evidence got tossed because he didn't have a warrant. My murder never got solved."

"It was necessary."

"Bullshit, Grissom! If it was so damn important, why didn't you get help from day or swing shifts? I know there were other CSIs that didn't have murder investigations. Oh, wait. That would mean you had to admit there was a case you needed help with. Your reputation means too much for you to do that."

"Yes, it does matter to me, and I don't like it being trashed," he replied harshly, unable to control his pain any longer.

A knock at the door caused both of them to swing around quickly. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had," Brass moaned as he entered. He stopped short, noting the tension in the room. "Yeah, so much for small talk."

"I'm on my way out," Sara told him.

"Hold on, this involves you," Brass said. "I have a dead cement truck driver. We were following the leads, and we ended up at a chop shop off Las Vegas Boulevard. They'd just started ripping a car apart. The VIN matches the car Rachel Mathers was driving. There's blood spatter all over the inside. It's on its way in."

"I'm on it," Sara said, flashing Grissom a defiant look before storming out of the room.

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the beta.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 5 **

"I didn't expect to see you here," Brass said, his voice carrying an unasked question. He paused, letting the hurrying figure catch up to him before they continued to the interrogation room.

"I could say the same thing," Grissom answered shortly, flexing his hands. After his encounter with Sara the previous day, he had let her and Greg process the car. Doubting his presence would help – and in a mild state of emotional shock – he'd gone home to sleep off the remnants of his migraine. He'd had little success as Sara's words replayed in his mind. Obviously, his actions had been a source of contention, and Grissom admitted to himself that he handled some matters clumsily.

But the true source of his discomfort was the way Sara told him. She'd always been direct, but never like this. Combined with her earlier off-handed comments about emotionally unavailable men and inappropriate validation, it led Grissom to one conclusion: Sara no longer cared what he thought about her. And that meant she'd given up on him.

That thought bothered him in an odd manner. He was the one that was unwilling to enter a relationship, but the idea that it was a moot point hurt, in ways Grissom never suspected possible. The risks were too high for him, but he enjoyed the sway he held over Sara. The knowledge that she didn't need him cut deeply, leaving him with a sense of vulnerability. It was a new experience, and it perturbed him.

The sense of loss and lack of sleep had him on edge, and the questioning look from Brass didn't help. He wasn't ready for another round of questioning about his handling of the case, and Grissom tensed as he turned to the detective.

"Yeah, it's just that I remember working with Anderson from day shift on this," Brass noted.

Grissom darted his eyes to the side quickly, making no other concession to his misreading of the comment. Stopping in front of the door, he leaned against the wall. "Anderson wants to go on vacation next week. They're swamped, and he was glad to hand the case over to me."

"Think it's related to your missing kid?"

"I don't know," Grissom sighed. "A dead cement truck driver leads to the car that belongs to the missing daughter of a construction contractor. I know there's been a crackdown on chop shops, but we can't ignore the improbability of that. And we don't have any other leads yet."

"Really? I thought that chunk of change the parents were waving would have gotten something," Brass said sarcastically.

"Oh, Rachel ran off with Elvis, she's been abducted by aliens, and a taco stand off the Strip is serving her remains to tourists. On the 'credible' side, there were three dozen possible sightings all around the state, most of them at the same time as another sighting somewhere else."

"Sounds about right," Brass chuckled as he held open the door. Inside, a lanky, handcuffed man with graying hair sat listening intently to the whispered advice of his attorney.

"Victor, Victor, Victor," the detective began in a sad voice. "Have you been a bad boy?"

"Yes."

The blunt answer shocked both Brass and Grissom, who sat down quickly on the other side of the table.

"Gentlemen, I've advised Mr. Dvorak to come clean about this. I'm sure you've checked, and you know my client has no record. This was all a terrible mistake. Mr. Dvorak is an honest businessman who was unfortunately tempted by opportunity."

"I'm all ears," Brass said. "Who'd you get the car from?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you're coming clean."

"No, I'm serious. I got to work in the morning, and someone had left the car in my back lot with the junkers. I, uh, well. You hear about things like this," Dvorak said nervously. "I've, uh, never done something like this before."

"I'll be gentle."

"Huh? Oh! I figured someone wrecked it, and their kid did it, or they were drunk. Like I said, I've heard about this. The owners leave it so it gets junked, and then they report it as stolen. They get their money back and don't get in no trouble."

"The blood didn't bother you?" Grissom asked.

"Nah, it was all on the inside. Uh, damn. What I mean is, I've been doing bodywork for years. I've seen a lot of cars after accidents where the driver was the only one hurt. You get blood like that. The front of the car was smashed in, like it hit a pole or something. Most of it was still in good shape, so I decided to salvage the parts. I really thought someone wanted to get rid of it."

"Well, you're right about that," Brass said. "Do you know John Malco?"

Dvorak sat back with a puzzled expression. "Who?"

"He drives for Ronnie's Cement Company."

"No, the name doesn't sound familiar. Why?"

"He called your business four times the afternoon he was shot and killed."

"What?" Dvorak asked, his mouth hanging open. He turned to his attorney quickly. "I don't know nothing about that."

"He called my client's business establishment?"

"The pay phone outside."

"Well, that could have been anyone," the lawyer snorted. "His employees, someone off of the street."

"Did you see anyone using that phone?" Grissom asked. "Anyone hanging around the building?"

"No. I work in the back bays or in my office. I can't see out front. I don't come out 'less someone rings the bell."

"So you don't have someone who works the counter."

"Nah. Guys, I'm sorry. Really. I, I didn't know the car belonged to that girl."

Grissom froze, fixing a steady look on the mechanic. "What makes you think it does?"

The attorney shifted in his chair, his head tilted, and Brass had a half-smile on his lips. Dvorak swung his head between the piercing looks directed at him, and he reached his cuffed hands to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. "You were on TV. The news lady said you screwed up the girl's case. Why else would you be talking to me?"

Brass got up, nodding for Grissom to follow. Once outside the interrogation room, the detective let out a sigh. "The attorney was right. I did check. The guy's never been in trouble. Dvorak hasn't even had a speeding ticket. Some complaints about bad paint jobs, but that's it."

Grissom ran his hand through his hair. "It could be coincidence, but I want his records checked. The Kenyons have several trucks and vans in their business. I want to know if Dvorak worked on any of them, or if they ever did any construction work for him."

"I'm talking to the girl's parents later. I'll see if Malco ever worked for them, or if they know Dvorak. Vartann's been given a little vacation."

"You're working Mathers' disappearance?" Grissom asked, surprised that a homicide captain was handling a missing persons case.

"Why not? It's a high-profile case, and they want someone with some experience in charge of it. Besides, I look better on TV than you do," Brass said, rolling his eyes. "And Burdick is still pissed about my LA trip."

"Politics," Grissom muttered, shaking his head as he left.

* * *

"You look like hell." 

Grissom let out a sigh, sitting back as Catherine entered his office. He felt like hell, and it had little to do with his lack of sleep or the residual effects of his migraine. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss Sara's accusations as an isolated emotional outburst, Grissom recognized the kernel of truth in her statements.

But it was a kernel; something else was bothering her, and that had him on edge. Despite her assurances, Grissom suspected she was identifying with the missing young woman. The similarities in their backgrounds were too obvious to ignore. He didn't know if the case was dragging out painful memories for her or not, but he doubted she'd be willing to talk to him at this point.

"How's the migraine?"

"Gone," he answered.

"Good," Catherine answered with a smile. Taking a seat, she rested her arms on the chair. "I caught you on the news."

"I didn't get into a fight with the mother," he groused.

"Glad you have some sense. Guess Burdick already told you that you should have stayed away from there."

"Do I get another lecture on my lack of people skills?" Grissom asked, peeking over the top of his glasses cautiously.

"Hell, Gil, I've been warning you about that for years," Catherine answered, waving off his hurt expression. "What's wrong?"

Grissom let out a long breath, twirling a pen distractedly in his fingers. He didn't bother to ask why she thought something was wrong or to try to deny it. Catherine knew him too well. Unfortunately, he doubted the opposite was true.

On the rare occasions when he sought out advice, she had been his first choice. Catherine understood him, and his sour moods and brooding glares didn't intimidate her. But now Grissom wondered if listening to her had caused more troubles than it solved.

More than anything, Sara's reminder of his behavior when Warrick's case was in jeopardy disturbed Grissom. He'd done more than impeded her case – he'd deliberately cut her down, in front of the entire team. Catherine had assured him it was the right thing to do, but Grissom now understood she had her own ulterior motives.

Faced with an uncharted situation, Grissom was lost. He couldn't rely on Catherine for advice, and there was no one else he trusted to turn to.

"I'm shorthanded," he eventually answered, unwilling to discuss the more personal aspects. "And a murder day shift was covering could be related to our case."

"You need some help?"

"Swing shift is just as backed up, if not more so."

"Yeah, but none of our cases are this important," Catherine pointed out.

Grissom frowned, picking up a manila file from his desk. Sara had been right about one thing; he'd willingly lend his team members to help other shifts, but refused to ask for help himself. It had always been a source of pride to him that his shift could handle all their work and still have time to assist others. Now he wondered how much harm his pride had caused.

With a sigh, he tossed the folder across the desk to her. "The hotline the parents set up is getting a lot of hits. Most of them are obviously dead ends, but some of them have potential."

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Catherine asked with a friendly smile, chuckling softly at Grissom's stunned look. "I'll get the guys to start on this. Any word when Sofia will be back?"

"The task force likes having their own CSI. They aren't going to let her go without a fight," he said.

"Good thing you still have Sara."

Cocking his head, Grissom blinked as he tried to decipher any cryptic meanings to that statement. Seeing his confusion, Catherine nodded her head in the direction of the locker room.

"She never sleeps. Past two shifts, she was here when I started, and she never went home. I think she's going to break her old record for maxing out on overtime," Catherine said, taking the file and standing up to leave. "Or not. Sara looked like she was going to fall asleep in the locker room."

"Thanks, Catherine," Grissom said, leaning back in his chair after she left. Once alone, he rested his head in his hands, rubbing slowly as he pondered the situation. He was hesitant to talk to Sara for several reasons, not the least of which was he didn't relish being on the receiving end of another outburst. There was the real possibility she wouldn't appreciate his concern.

And he also had no idea what to do.

Grissom knew he was in a dangerous situation. It was getting harder to be around Sara and remained detached. The temptation to give in to his feelings grew stronger every time they were alone. Even after her attack at the mental institution, he'd stayed away for the simple fact he knew he wouldn't want to ever leave her side. That would open a door that they couldn't close again.

On the other hand, he couldn't ignore Sara. In the past, he'd distanced himself from her whenever an uncomfortable situation arose, but that had hurt her on too many occasions. While Grissom was unable to act on his feelings, he still cared deeply for her, and the thought of being an additional source of pain troubled him.

Grissom got up and walked down the hallways, silently cursing the fates that led him to this personal impasse. He could neither give Sara what she needed, nor could he avoid her. She deserved something he couldn't provide, and the thought of her finding it from someone else upset him.

Entering the locker room, he found Sara sitting on the bench in front of her open locker. He stayed by the door, watching her closely. A smudge of grease on her cheek and disarrayed hair showed she'd stayed to work further on the car. She'd yet to acknowledge his presence.

Grissom shifted fretfully, aware he'd caught her in an unguarded moment. He'd never seen Sara look so exhausted or distressed. An aura of dejection surrounded her. She was staring at the pictures on the inside of the door, but her focus seemed to be distant. He stepped closer, frowning as he observed the photos closely for the first time. They all showed Sara when she was young; judging by the images, Grissom suspected all of them dated from a time before her father's murder. Hadn't anything good or memorable happened in her life since then?

"Hey," he said softly, unable to remain silent any longer.

"Grissom!" Sara exclaimed, sitting upright suddenly. The raw emotions vanished from her expression as a mask dropped quickly. Noticing that he was examining her pictures, she grabbed a bag from her locker and closed the door. "You surprised me."

"Sorry," he said, frowning in consternation. Uncertain how to proceed, Grissom went with the obvious. "You look tired."

She shook her head, giving him a half-hearted smile. "Nah. All I need is a shower and some caffeine."

"Have you slept since Rachel Mathers disappeared?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, avoiding his gaze.

"Enough?"

"I thought I was the person you went to when you needed someone to stay up three days in a row," she said with a forced lightness.

"It's been brought to my attention that my managerial skills are lacking," he answered, unable to keep all the pain from his tone.

Sara dropped her head and leaned against the locker, a trace of her earlier dejection showing through. "God, Grissom, I'm sorry. Really. I had no right to unload on you like that."

"I think you had reason to be upset," he admitted slowly.

"Doesn't matter," she stated forcefully. Giving her head a shake, she turned to face him, her arms wrapped around herself tightly. "I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry. I'll understand if you want to suspend me, but…"

"I'm not going to do that."

"Thanks," she whispered, glancing at him briefly.

The quick spark of sadness in her eyes cut through Grissom's reserve. Ignoring his mental warning bells, he took a hesitant step closer, gingerly resting a hand on her elbow. The urge to pull her close was strong enough to startle him, but Sara's reaction dampened it.

"Hey, I'm fine. Really. I, uh, better go get cleaned up."

Grissom stood there as Sara backed away, her exhaustion showing in the uneven way she turned in the direction of the showers.

"Sara, if you want to talk…"

"No," she shot back quickly over her shoulder. "I've already said too much."

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the beta.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 6 **

Walking into the break room, Sara headed straight for the coffee machine. The aroma gave her hope, and a quick taste verified her suspicions. This wasn't the lab's typical sludge, but a high-quality brew. The timing was perfect. She hadn't been kidding when she told Grissom that she needed caffeine; she was nearing the limits of even her prodigious ability to go without sleep.

After taking a second, longer drink, she headed to the table, cradling the cup in her hands. Earlier in the locker room she was even half-convinced Grissom was ready to touch her, a clear sign that she needed rest. If that wasn't enough, her own hope that he would reach out showed how tired she was. Hadn't he already made it clear that he wasn't going to take the risk? So why couldn't she get over him?

Sipping the coffee slowly, Sara's eyes rolled as she pondered that. It was becoming the defining question of her life. She'd survived a terrible childhood, made the most of her life with the limited resources and support offered, and now as an adult, one man totally threw her off-balance. She wanted to dismiss it as a sign of weakness, but he was the only man she'd ever loved. And if life had taught her one lesson, it was that love was something too special to throw away.

Pushing the hair from her face, she sat back slowly. Unrequited love was a dead end, though; she had to move on. In the past, every time she thought she was making progress in that regard, Grissom would say or do something that pulled her back. But that was it. He never offered anything else. Sara sighed softly. It wasn't enough, and she wanted more out of life. This non-relationship wasn't beneficial to either of them. All she needed was a way to convince him of that.

That actually brought a sad smile to her lips. How did you talk to a guy who seemed to live his whole life in a state of emotional denial? She'd love to have a clue about any aspect of him. After her angry outburst, she'd expected him to retreat, but he'd been concerned. Grissom probably even thought exhaustion caused her eruption. He was right, in a sense, but it had nothing to do with lack of sleep. Her fatigue was emotional, and it had been building for too many years.

Hearing quick steps behind her, Sara looked over her shoulder to see Greg entering the room. He carried a thermos and had an uncharacteristic upset expression. She watched as he hurriedly emptied the coffee pot, casting suspicious looks over his shoulder while he worked.

"I could kiss you," she told him, ignoring the cheek he proffered on the way to take a seat opposite of her.

"You always say that, but you never do," he grumbled good-naturedly, winking at her as he topped off her cup. After comically scanning the area, he hid the thermos under the table.

"I never actually said I would kiss you, just that I could. And thanks. I needed this."

"Well, in that case, I won't get upset with Grissom. Can you believe he ordered me to break out the good stuff? I tried to tell him Hodges was a coffee-guzzling thief, but he wouldn't listen."

"What did you say?" Sara asked slowly, her cup paused in front of her lips.

"That Hodges is a coffee-guzzling thief. If he finds this thermos, he'll drink the entire thing, the leech. No, that's an insult to leeches. They can't help that they're bloodsuckers. Does he ever offer to pay for it?"

As he continued to gripe about ungrateful lab techs, she stared into her mug in confusion. Grissom appreciated good coffee, but it was odd for him to demand that Greg supply it. A small voice in the back of her mind suggested that he'd done it for her benefit. She couldn't quite believe that; it carried implications she didn't want to think about.

She was still trying to downplay the gesture when Grissom came in, carrying a pizza box. Even Greg stopped his harangue to watch as he headed to the cabinets to grab a stack of paper plates and napkins. "Coffee, Greg?"

"Here," he answered, pulling out the thermos.

Grissom came over, setting the pizza in the middle of the table before retrieving a coffee mug. When he came back, he nodded at them expectantly and opened the box to show a large mushroom pizza inside it. "There's enough for all of us."

Greg shrugged and grabbed a slice immediately, but Sara hesitated uncertainly. This really was some sort of overture on his part, but the she wasn't sure how to react, especially when he took the seat directly next to her. He'd even remembered that she was a vegetarian.

It had been over a day since she'd eaten a proper meal, and her stomach began to grumble. Her colleagues both looked at her questioningly, and she took one of the plates. Sara made eye contact with Grissom as she finally reached for a slice, and what she saw hurt. He had enough compassion and consideration to make her heart skip a beat, and enough sadness to verify that no matter what he felt, he wasn't going to act on it.

"What do we have?" he asked softly.

"Not a lot," Greg volunteered first. "The car was a wreck. They'd already started stripping the interior."

"Be glad it wasn't pancaked," Sara muttered between bites. "It's bad enough the parts were sitting on that dirty floor. We sent a bunch of samples to Trace, but contamination is a possibility."

"Yeah. We took blood samples from the car, but I don't know if we'll be able to get anything from it. You know how hot cars get sitting in the sun. The blood's not fresh, and it may have degraded too much to get DNA."

"I know," Grissom said softly. Rachel Mathers had been missing for six days now; the odds of finding any intact physical evidence had dropped. He also knew the odds of finding the young woman decreased every day, a fact the news reports continued to state in each broadcast. That bothered him, not because of his reputation, but because he knew what the case meant to Sara.

"Well, Mia has the samples now, along with Rachel's toothbrush and hairbrush. She's looking to see if she can get any DNA from them. Someone wiped the inside of the car down. We found a lot of swirls, but no fingerprints."

"There were prints on the outside of the car, but those all match Dvorak or his employees. No surprise there. They weren't thinking about prints when they were tearing the car apart," Sara said.

"What else? You stayed late working on something."

She grinned wryly. "Rachel is on the short side, so if someone else drove that car, it's possible they had to adjust the seat. I checked the seat position lever; whoever wiped the rest of the car didn't think about that. There were several partials. I also found some on the inside of the trunk, and on the doorframe. Jacqui's working on them."

"Good," Grissom said, handing her a second slice of pizza. "The police don't have much in the way of leads so far. Dvorak says someone left the car on his lot with the junkers, and he thought they were going to report it as stolen, so he decided to strip it for parts."

"You believe him?" Greg asked.

"It's not an unheard of situation. And he has a spotless record – not your typical chop shop operator. Dvorak's cooperating, telling us we can search his home without a warrant. He's taken full responsibility for what happened, saying his employees didn't know anything about the car. Right now, there's nothing to tie him directly either to our missing person case or Malco's murder."

"Dumb luck?"

"Possibly. But serendipity is seldom so serendipitous. That's why I'm taking over the Malco murder," Grissom said, pausing to take a bite of pizza. He gave Sara a quick look before continuing. "I've asked Catherine for help; swing shift will be checking out the leads from the hotline."

Sara did a subtle double take, hiding her surprise behind her piece of pizza. He'd actually asked for help – on an active case. True, it was only from Catherine, but the magnitude wasn't lost on her. It was an unexpected move on his part. Combined with the makeshift lunch, she was left confused. Unable to comprehend his motivations, she focused on their case.

"I went over the time frames again," she said, leaning forward and resting her arms on the table. "Rachel had breakfast at home around seven that morning. She went to her classes at UNLV. Her professors verified she was there."

"Did anyone notice anything wrong, or was she acting differently?"

Sara shrugged in response to Grissom's question. "No one really paid much attention to her. They all said she's basically a quiet person. She doesn't volunteer information, but when called on, she knows the answers. After classes, she had lunch with her boyfriend, Ben Johnson. She then went to the Kenyon Construction's office; both parents work there. Rachel helps with the ordering and paperwork. She was there until four. Plenty of people saw her. According to the Elisa Kenyon, she left to deliver some papers to one of their remote sites. She never showed up."

"Did anyone notice her leave?" Grissom asked, his eyes crinkling uneasily.

"No. Some of the workers noticed her car was gone later that day, but no one saw when she drove off."

"If she did," he answered cryptically, moving a third slice of pizza towards her.

Sara caught the implied comment, and her head bobbed in reluctant agreement. The parents were the last ones to see her; that made them potential suspects in the case.

"And Mr. Kenyon left around the same time as they said Rachel did. No one can verify their story," she replied, dropping her head briefly at the proud look he gave her. "The remote site, outside of Henderson, wasn't expecting the new plans until the next day, so no one called to let the main office know she didn't show up."

"And they thought Rachel was going to the library to study that night for finals, so they weren't surprised when she wasn't home before they went to bed," Greg added. "It wasn't until the next morning that they noticed she was missing. They tried to call her friends, but no one had seen her."

"Did Rachel make it to the library? If she had finals and the site wasn't expecting her until the next day, she may have decided to put it off," Grissom noted.

Sara grabbed her mug, looking away briefly. "I thought the same thing, but never got around to checking. The case was closed before I could get there."

"Try in the morning," he answered, avoiding her pained look. "Right now, I want you to head to the office, see what you can find there. Greg, help Mia with those samples. If you get done that, help Hodges with the trace from this case. I'll be working the murder."

"Oh, man, I never get to go out," Greg half-whined, refilling everyone's mugs before leaving the room with the thermos hidden under his lab coat.

Sara grinned at his antics, lifting her cup up in thanks before he disappeared. Taking a long drink, she was distinctly aware of Grissom's presence beside her. It was inconspicuously reassuring and vaguely unsettling, leaving her in an emotion labyrinth. Considering the number of times he'd left her there, she felt that she should have memorized the route by now, but she was as lost as ever. After setting her mug down, she looked in his direction, giving him a quick grin.

"Thanks. For sharing the pizza."

"Go ahead and finish it."

"I'm not going to eat your dinner, Grissom," she replied, before noting that the single piece he'd taken sat barely touched on his plate.

Catching her confused look, he stood and dumped his trash. It was a delaying tactic, but he could see that she was uncomfortable. That hadn't been his intention; he knew she was exhausted, and suspected she wasn't eating properly.

"I ate before I came in," he said, handing the box to her. "Go ahead and finish your dinner before you go out. And I want you to go straight home when you get done at the library in the morning."

"Uh. Yeah. Thanks, again."

Grissom smiled at her, his eyes holding a touch of mischief. "Well, someone has take care of you if you won't do it yourself."

He left the break room before she could react, heading to the sanctuary of his office. His comments had been meant as a joke, but immediately after he spoke he recognized they could be taken as patronizing. That was the last thing he felt. Sara's strength was something he admired, especially considering she didn't sacrifice her empathy in the process.

Once behind his desk, he buried himself in work. He'd already read the preliminary reports on the Malco murder; there hadn't been much to go over. The cement truck driver had moved to Vegas recently, and no one at the company knew much about him. He lived in a rundown rental unit, and a deputy found his truck parked on a side street with Malco behind the wheel with a gunshot wound to the head and his hands missing.

Grissom set down the files and turned to his laptop, where he loaded records gathered by the police. A series of cross-references revealed that John Malco had never worked for either Kenyon Construction or Dvorak's Body Shop. There was no record of the Kenyons doing any work for either Malco or Dvorak, nor had Dvorak done any repairs for either of them.

Looking at the records more closely, he frowned. Malco listed nothing on his job application about prior experience, but driving a cement truck wasn't a learn-as-you-go job. He pulled up the DMV database and checked Malco's license number. It was a legitimate license – but issued to a Fred Becque. Further research showed Becque died two months before Malco started work at Ronnie's Cement.

Tossing his glasses to his desk, Grissom stretched muscles that had tightened in the hours he'd spent at the computer. So far, there was nothing to suggest that anything other than coincidence connected the two cases. But Malco was a mystery; there was no record of him anywhere before he started work in Vegas, and his killer wanted to make sure no one learned more. They'd taken DNA samples, but CODIS only carried information on a limited number of criminals nationwide. And without fingers to print, their odds of identifying him were slim.

Grissom reached for his mug, but one sip of the cold liquid made him wrinkle his face in disgust. Standing up, he went in search of Greg and the hidden thermos of good coffee as he considered his next step. The file didn't have the autopsy photos yet, so in the morning, he'd go talk to the day shift coroner.

Passing a lab, he paused, studying Sara's profile as she examined something underneath a microscope. Concentrating on her work, she didn't notice his presence. _Or she's choosing to ignore me,_ he thought. Thoughts of apologizing for his earlier quip danced in his mind, but in the end he continued down the hallway.

As he walked away, a scowl settled on his face. There was no hard evidence to suggest that the Malco murder was connected to the girl's disappearance, but he didn't want to take any chances. And that irked him. It was an emotional response, not a logical one. And he knew the source of it was his concern for Sara. He wanted to help, and the only way he knew how was through work.

It was just this sort of personal involvement that Grissom feared; even without admitting or acting on his feelings for her, he was letting his emotions intrude into work. That was something he worked hard for years to avoid, and his current weakness annoyed him.

And a nagging thought plagued him: maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have been so bad if he had let Sara in. His feelings were sneaking out now, and it wasn't affecting their ability to work together. If he had acted on his feelings, a lot of pain could have been avoided, and they could have had shared a lot of joy.

Finding Greg, he gruffly asked for more coffee before returning to his office. They could have had – past tense. There was no way to recapture the lost opportunities or take back the injuries. The damage had been done, and even if he could repair it, Grissom doubted Sara would ever let him in.

As he rounded a corner, he resisted the urge to turn back. Ecklie was coming from the other direction, and from his expression, Grissom doubted it would be good news. Entering his office, he waved Ecklie in with a flourish.

"Whatever it is, Conrad, I don't have the time for it."

"You better make time, Gil. We have a meeting with the sheriff at eight this morning."

"Maybe we can discuss how shorthanded we are thanks to your playing musical chairs with the shifts? I'm swamped with work, including the missing girl that is now our priority."

"Look, I'm not here to fight with you. I don't know what this meeting is about, but Burdick was livid. Whoever is putting the pressure on the department is angry at the lack of progress."

"What? We just started the case," Grissom said. "We're good, but we can't work miracles. We need time to work."

"I just hope you have time left," Ecklie responded with surprising sympathy. "If we don't find this girl, the sheriff is going to want heads to roll. We're both on the chopping block."

Grissom stared incredulously as his supervisor left, unable to believe that things were so bad.

_TBC _


	7. Chapter 7

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the beta. Sorry for the delays in the updates; the real world isn't playing nicely at the moment.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 7 **

Tilting his head quizzically, Grissom walked into the Layout Room. Sara sat at the head of the table with piles of materials neatly arranged around her. From the smell, he presumed she'd retrieved the items from a trashcan. She was concentrating on some scraps of paper, and she didn't look up as he approached.

"Shift is nearly over," he commented dryly. She'd pushed even her endurance to the limit, and he wanted her to take care of herself. The trouble was how to achieve that without coming across as patronizing again.

"I know. Go to the library, see if Rachel ever showed up and then go home. Trust me, I'm ready for some sleep. You don't have to check up on me."

His eyebrows twitched at her tone. It wasn't angry, amused or annoyed. If anything, the delivery was so lacking in any emotion it sounded forced. Hoping exhaustion was the cause, he turned his attention to the table. "Did you find anything at the construction office?"

"Not really. No sign of a struggle, no blood. The place was neat, but no one's done a thorough cleaning in there recently."

"Like someone was trying to cover up a crime scene."

"Exactly. I printed everything. There was one of those rollaway dumpsters outside. Mainly construction waste, but when I was looking in it, this caught my attention," she said, holding up a scrap of paper. "I was getting ready to page you."

She handed him a torn piece of paper. On it a large grid had been drawn. The columns had been labeled alphabetically, starting with 'a' and ending in 'z'. Underneath that, a series of rows had been drawn. Those appeared to be alphabetically listed, but almost everything below row 'd' had been torn away. A jumble of letters filled all the cells of the grid.

"What is it?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me. There were pages of these. I managed to piece one complete one together," she said, moving a sheet of tissue paper over. On it rested several scraps of paper. "The rows are also listed alphabetically. If you go across each row, all the letters of the alphabet are there in some random order. The order is different on each line, at least from what I can tell. Is this some sort of puzzle?"

"Besides a jigsaw puzzle?" he answered lightly. "Nothing I've ever seen before, but I'm a crossword kind of guy."

Sara let out a sigh as she leaned back in her chair. "Damn. I have no idea if this means anything or not."

"What about the rest of the items in the dumpster?"

"I'm having it hauled in."

"Get Jacqui to print the scraps of paper," Grissom said. "Until something else links to these, don't worry about them for now. The library staff should be arriving by the time you get this evidence put away and grab some breakfast."

"Subtle," Sara said, starting to package the various items. When he didn't leave, she paused in her work, slowly turning to regard him with a guarded expression. "Look…"

Grissom waited silently for her to phrase her statement. Her subdued manner bothered him more than her earlier anger. She was deliberately trying to hide something from him, and that made him a bit nervous. It also fired his natural sense of curiosity.

After a beat, she let out a small sigh and forced a smile. "Thanks again for the pizza. That was nice."

That comment had been unexpected, and Grissom wasn't sure how to react. There was no doubt she'd refrained from saying what was really on her mind. A muscle in his jaw worked slightly; he cared about his team, but he'd never been comfortable with personal conversations. He balanced that against his concern for her and his curiosity; the outcome seemed logical, but his stomach still twittered.

"I have a meeting this morning. By the time I get done with that, you should be finished at the library. I'd like to swing by your apartment."

"And I said you didn't have to check up on me. I do know when I need to sleep," Sara replied. A hint of her natural temper showed, and Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"I'll take your word on that. And it isn't my attention to 'check up on you', either. I want to talk to you."

"So talk now."

"I don't think this is the proper place for it."

She actually chuckled at that. "You never talk about yourself, so I'm guessing that's not what you had in mind. If it's work-related, then work is the place to talk about it. When I go home, I really do like to leave work stuff here."

"And you're conveniently leaving out the third option," he said softly, stepping closer to her.

"What? Baseball? Not into sports. Wouldn't be much of a conversation," she replied lightly.

"Sara ... I want to know why you're angry."

She darted her eyes to him momentarily. "We already covered that."

"True. I know why you're angry about the way this case was handled. The system isn't perfect. Some cases get more attention than they deserve. Others are brushed aside too quickly. You're probably right that I'm not always fair. I have my share of flaws," Grissom stated firmly. "Now I want to know the rest of it."

Sara dropped her head, letting it sway from side to side in minute movements. Taking a deep breath, she began packaging her evidence. "Even assuming there is a rest of it, there's nothing more to say."

"Why?"

She turned to him with a harsh glare, but he countered by softening his expression. It didn't have the desired affect, and she resumed bagging various items. "Drop it," she answered shortly.

"And that implies there is more than what you're telling me."

Exasperated, she pounded a gloved fist lightly against the table. "Considering you wouldn't even tell me something trivial like why you know sign language, why should I keep telling you all about my life? Do you like hearing it? 'Cause I sure as hell don't like talking about it."

Grissom reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. As he suspected, this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in a public location. Her voice wasn't raised, but anyone could walk into the room at any time. That was a situation he wanted to avoid.

"This isn't very productive, and it's not the proper place for it. I have to meet with Burdick about the Kenyons' complaint this morning," he said, starting to add he'd call her once the meeting was done, but she interrupted him.

"I'm so sorry about that."

He actually blinked in surprise. Her sorrow was sincere; there was no mistaking it in either her tone or her body language. What he didn't understand is why she felt the need to apologize. She had no blame.

"It's not your fault," he said, frowning when she looked away in embarrassment. "Did you tell the Kenyons to file a complaint?"

"Of course not! I'd never do anything like that," she said, looking at him in shock. "I told the sheriff and Ecklie you didn't do anything wrong. Please believe me."

"I do. The only reason I mentioned it was to point out it was insane."

"Right."

Grissom's face curled up in confusion. The conversation wasn't making any sense. It was clear she was upset, but he couldn't decipher the reason. Did she really think he'd believe she'd encourage a victim's family to lodge a complaint? If so, things between them were worse than he ever imagined. The only other option was that she blamed herself for what happened, but that also made no sense.

"I'm lost," he exhaled softly.

"Isn't that the best place for a scientist to be?" Sara shot back with a faux smile. When his concerned gaze never faltered, she rolled her shoulders. "Just let it ago, okay? I've already said too much."

"You said that earlier."

"Are you going to drop this?"

He frowned and huffed out a breath. Her last question was barely above a whisper. "No," he finally answered. "I can't."

Sara took her time answering. She put her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers together as she stared at the far wall. Grissom didn't interrupt, realizing she was mentally working out the way to proceed.

"You think I identified with Rachel."

He rested his hip on the table, shrugging slightly. "The parallels are obvious."

"Yeah. All us foster kids have identical lives," she snorted. "When I went to my first family, I had no idea how screwed up my life had been before that. Everything that I thought was normal turned out to be abnormal. It took getting used to."

"I can imagine," he said gently.

"Somehow, I doubt you can." Her grin was self-deprecating and short-lived. "Once I started figuring out what was right, I swore I wasn't going to let what happened to me hold me back. I wasn't going to be a victim."

Grissom smiled at that. "I'd say you'd succeeded. Ivy League education, graduate degree in the hard sciences. That's an accomplishment in itself, even for someone who came from a … typical family. And you have a job you excel in and love."

"Yeah, well, the job can't love you back."

"No, it can't," he said uneasily, clearing his throat.

"I can't escape what happened. I thought I had it behind me, but I don't. And I screwed up at work. I totally lost my composure, got suspended."

"How does this relate to the case?"

Sara looked at him for a long time. Anger and sadness mixed together in her countenance, further confusing him. Finally, she broke the contact and let out a long sigh.

"If I had kept my cool, I wouldn't have been suspended. If I hadn't been suspended, you would have left me alone. You wouldn't have a clue about what happened to me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Of course it is!" she half-barked.

"I was right," he said quietly. "You are mad at me."

"No. No, I'm not. I'm pissed, but at myself."

"Why?"

She twisted around in her chair, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest in a resigned manner. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "I screwed up, and now everything's changed. Don't try to deny it. Now that you know about my parents, what I went through, you see me differently. Everyone does once they know the truth. Why the hell do you think I don't talk about it?"

His lips parted slightly, and he shook his head. She was right; since learning about her childhood, his perceptions had changed. But if anything, he thought more of her now; she was stronger than he ever suspected.

Her hand came up to brush her eyes quickly, and he caught her irritated look as she wiped away the moisture. "It's bad enough I screwed up my life; I can deal with that. My mistakes, my consequences."

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"You still don't get it. This is my fault. If you didn't know about my childhood, you wouldn't have thought I was identifying with Rachel. You wouldn't have assumed I was unable to be impartial. Maybe you would have listened to me. The case wouldn't have been dismissed, you wouldn't be in trouble," she said. Her voice was low, but he caught the wobble. "And there'd be a better chance of finding Rachel still alive."

Grissom sat in a stunned silence. His mind replayed her words as it tried to make sense of it. She had to be wrong. That's all there was to it. This definitely wasn't her fault, but he had changed the way he treated her. Still, he hadn't dismissed her concerns because of it.

Or had he?

He was mentally debating that point when his pager sounded off.

"You better get to your meeting. Burdick's already upset," she said.

Before he could stop her, Sara exited the room with her boxed evidence. Swearing, he turned off his pager and headed the opposite direction for his meeting.

_TBC _


	8. Chapter 8

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Ann for the beta. I've rewritten this chapter to hopefully fix a plot hole. Sorry for the delay - the next chapter should be out soon.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

C**hapter 8 **

After depositing her evidence, Sara headed towards the exit with a determined stride. Passing the various labs, she fought the urge to verify that Grissom had left already, but another 'conversation' was the last thing she wanted right now. What was it about him that made her talk so much? It certainly wasn't his witty responses, and she didn't enjoy bringing up the painful memories.

Rounding the corner, she picked up her pace as she tried to burn off her rising frustration. Telling him the whole truth had been a mistake. There was no denying that she had screwed up. It hurt that she let her personal issues impact her work, but it was her fault, and she was willing to deal with those consequences. But now he would try to deny that he'd let it influence the way he treated her.

Why couldn't he let things go? He had to push. It wasn't like he was going to ever acknowledge, let alone act upon, his feelings. All he did was further complicate things.

And he gave her hope.

That reaction especially bothered her. He had made it clear she wasn't worth the risk. She'd always rank behind the job. The most he would be willing to offer was an awkward handhold. But after all that had happened, all her attempts to move on, he still had that effect on her. And it stung every time.

"Hey, Sara."

She spun around quickly, causing Jacqui to take an involuntary step back.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," the tech said apologetically.

"It's okay. What's up?" Sara asked, following her into the lab where she pulled up two images on the computer.

"Am I good, or am I good?"

"I think that depends on what you're about to tell me."

Jacqui grinned and pointed to the images. "The one of the left is the partial you lifted from the car's seating position level. The other is a partial you lifted from the construction office. They belong to the same person," she said, pressing keys to cause the images to twist around and line up. "And I was able to get a hit off AFIS. Brian Wilcox, convicted of embezzlement and released from prison two years ago. His parole record says he works at Kenyon Construction."

"I guess you are good," Sara answered with her own smile. "What about those papers I sent over?"

"No luck so far. Open dumpsters and paper don't mix well together. I have some tricks that I'll try on them tonight."

"Thanks." Taking the report, Sara continued her trip to the parking lot. Once outside, she paused and stared into the distance. After a quick mental calculation, she called Brass to meet her at the construction office.

Climbing into her car, she recalled her promise to Grissom that she'd go straight home from the university library. She was exhausted, but this was the closest they had to a lead yet on the case. She wasn't going to wait another day on it. Besides, it wouldn't take long to talk to Wilcox. She'd swing by the library from there, and she'd be a block from one of her favorite breakfast spots on the way home.

Sara frowned as she settled on her plan. Grissom said he wanted to stop by her place, and he'd probably try to visit while she was still at breakfast. She hoped she had discouraged that idea, but it was so hard to tell. He used to be predictable; anything that was even the slightest bit personal sent him into hiding. Now, he was just as likely to show up at her doorstep.

One thing was certain. She wasn't up to another talk, not now, at least. She was too tired. What she needed was a leisurely meal. With a sigh, she pulled into traffic, wondering if she should be more worried that she was avoiding Grissom or looking forward to the beers with her breakfast.

* * *

For his part, Grissom was equally troubled after the discussion. Walking towards the sheriff's office, he tried to figure out where things had gone so wrong. He really thought he'd been making progress with Sara. They talked more directly now. She had finally opened up to him; trusted him enough to see her at her weakest, to know her worst demons. She'd accepted his comfort.

His brow furrowed as the secretary nodded towards the door. Hadn't that been a defining moment in their renewed friendship? He'd gone to her home. He'd held her hand. For him, that was a significant gesture; personal involvement and physical contact were things he rarely allowed.

But did it mean as much to Sara? Apparently not. She clearly regretted the exchange. It hadn't been enough, Grissom decided. She'd been right; she'd bared everything to him, but he'd never returned the trust. It was against his nature, but he had to do something. He had to let her know that she was wrong.

"You're late."

Grissom snapped his head up quickly, catching the irate glare from the sheriff. Forcing himself to remain calm, he shrugged. "I do have a case to work on."

"One that doesn't seem to be making much progress."

He turned to stare at the middle-aged woman sitting in a chair near the door. She was non-descript except for the barely controlled detest in her eyes.

"Gil, this is Monique Myers," Ecklie said quickly. "She's a special counsel to the governor's office."

Ecklie's cautious tone caused Grissom's frown to return. He'd heard of Myers. She was a no-nonsense lawyer specializing in civil rights who dealt with allegations of discrimination in state agencies. She had a reputation of being both unrelenting and fair, but it didn't explain her presence at the meeting.

"And what can I do for you?" Grissom asked in polite puzzlement.

"I've been asked to look into the way the department handled the disappearance of Rachel Mathers."

Grissom resisted the urge to sigh. This explained the political pressure on Burdick. The Kenyons knew someone in office, and they pressed for more attention to be placed on the case. Confident in his department's handling of the matter, he took a seat and folded his hands calmly in his lap. The best defense attorneys in the state failed to rattle him. He hated the time wasted on political machinations, but he knew that the sooner this charade was over, the sooner the outside interference would stop.

"The Las Vegas Police Department doesn't answer to the governor's office," he noted. "I'm not sure how this falls under your jurisdiction."

"And we have no reason not to cooperate," Burdick snapped back.

Grissom's eyebrow shot up quickly. While he avoided the sheriff in general, he'd yet to get a handle on Burdick. It was obvious the man was upset, but he didn't know if it was directly related to this case. Looking around, he noted that Ecklie seemed especially on edge.

"Is there anything specifically you have questions about?" Grissom asked Myers with a professional air.

"Yes, _specifically_, I want to verify if your actions caused an unnecessary delay into this case."

"My actions?" Grissom repeated, unsuccessfully keeping his surprise and irritation out of his voice.

"Yes," Myers answered coolly. "You were the one to pull CSI Sidle from the investigation, I believe."

He did sigh that time. "The police report indicated no crime had occurred. Rachel Mathers had a history of running away, and there was nothing to indicate foul play was involved."

"A view disputed – and rightly so – by the criminalist assigned to the case."

"A view held by one of the criminalists assigned to the case," Grissom corrected.

"The view held by the senior CSI on the case," Myers said.

"True."

"So you sided with the opinion of a rookie CSI over that of the one in charge of the investigation."

"No, I didn't."

"It certainly seems that way," Myers said.

"I didn't take sides. The police report stated no crime occurred. We aren't in the habit of investigating something without the police determining it was a possible crime. In hindsight, CSI Sidle appears to have been correct, but we didn't know that at the time."

"But the fact remains you didn't listen to her concerns."

"I listened," Grissom answered shortly. He chewed the inside of his lip as he tried to put aside his immediate dislike of the woman. Whatever her reputation, she clearly had a distorted view of what had happened in this case. And she was getting into an area that was uncomfortable for him.

"Hmm. Are you having an affair with Sidle?"

"What?" he bellowed, standing up from his chair. He'd tolerate these questions if it meant getting her off his back, and allowing him to return to work, but the thought of Sara being dragged into this witch hunt infuriated him.

"Are you now, or have you in the past, had a physical relationship with Sidle?" Myers demanded.

"No, I'm not, and I never had."

Myers nodded sagely. "I see. Is that why you dismissed her views so quickly?"

"I didn't dismiss her views. I disagreed with her. And I resent you throwing around these baseless accusations."

"Sit down, Grissom," Burdick said.

Myers jotted some notes onto a legal pad, but Grissom caught a brief, amused look as he took his seat. This was unbelievable. Who did the Kenyons know that could arrange this farce? He concentrated on keeping his face impassive; his political skills were non-existent, but even he knew losing his temper now would be counterproductive.

"Do you have a problem with women in authority?" Myers asked.

"Not at all. I have a problem with political interference into my work, especially when it threatens to tarnish the image of one of my employees," he said, his voice dangerously low and controlled.

"You're concerned about Sidle's reputation?"

"Yes."

"Interesting," Myers said lightly. "But you didn't mind passing her over for the promotion to the lead CSI position."

Grissom blinked in confusion. Not only did he not understand how it tied into the girl's disappearance, he didn't understand how she knew about it. Personnel information was private; even she couldn't get it.

"I don't see how this has any relevance," he said wearily. "I recommended CSI Stokes for that position because I thought that he was the better candidate."

"Because he's a male," Myers stated.

"No!" Grissom breathed deeply through his nose, forcing his temper down. Now he understood where her line of questioning was going, and the absurdity of it riled him. "If I had a problem with women in positions of authority, I never would have recommended CSI Willows for promotion to shift supervisor."

"Hmm. So, on what grounds did you think CSI Stokes was more qualified?"

"What bearing does any of this have on this case?" he asked, unwilling to answer her last question. The truth was he had no good answer for it. Sara was right; his response when she asked the same question had been stupid. The entire promotion situation had been hell for him. If he gave it to Sara, people would jump to the same conclusions that Myers was – that she'd slept her way into it. But by denying it to her, he'd hurt her.

And possibly his own reputation.

Grissom blinked as that realization dawned on him. Nick was an excellent CSI, and more than qualified for the position of lead CSI, but Sara was equally – if not more so – qualified. He'd have a hard time rationalizing his decision on purely professional grounds.

Myers noted his silence and flipped the pages of her legal pad over. "Sidle has degrees in physics from Harvard and Berkeley. With honors, I might add. Stokes has a bachelor's degree, and it's not even in the sciences. Education isn't in his favor."

She waited until for Grissom to respond, but when he didn't, she gave him a knowing look. "They have comparable service, so he didn't have seniority. Sidle has a commendation from the FBI for her assistance with an investigation into a serial rapist and murderer. Likewise, the Treasury Department sent her a commendation for her work during a counterfeiting operation. Stokes has no such commendations."

"There are other factors involved," Ecklie injected quickly. He gave Grissom a warning look before continuing. "CSI Sidle is obviously qualified, or she'd never have been given a job here. However, I must point out that she has six complaints filed against her. We have to consider that."

Myers merely smiled as she flipped some more pages over on her notepad. "Yes, I know about the complaints. Let's see. First one came from a fellow named Sheldon. He's currently in jail for murdering his abused wife. Next came Mr. Agaves. He's in jail for sexually molesting his step-daughters. The next complaint came from a Bill Gaines. He also killed his abused wife."

Ecklie held up his hand to stop the litany. "Yes, I know they were all convicted, but at the time the complaints were filed, they were only suspects."

"Oh, I understand that. Of course an investigation was warranted," Myers said with an icy stare. "What bothers me is that you still think the complaints against CSI Sidle by these men are valid reasons to hold against her."

"That's enough," Burdick said quickly when Ecklie started to respond. "I have to say I had no idea that any of this happened. It was all before I started, but I assure you that I will take this seriously."

"Thank you, Sheriff. Of course, anything that happened before you took office can't be blamed on you," she said with an unfriendly smile.

"Of course," he answered with a nervous swallow.

"I'm mainly concerned with what happened recently. To me, all of this," she said, pointing to her notes, "indicates a potentially disturbing pattern."

"I'll oversee the investigation personally," Burdick stated.

"Very well, but I still plan on carrying out my own line of questioning," Myers said as she gathered her items. "The governor's office is very concerned about this."

Grissom's control over his anger faltered as she shot him a victorious look on her way out of the office. Standing up, he shrugged off Ecklie's restraining hand and moved in front of the sheriff's desk.

"What the hell was all of that?"

Burdick leaned back in his chair with an icy glare. "Funny. I was getting ready to ask you the same thing."

"Oh, I can tell you _exactly_ what just happened."

"Gil," Ecklie said in warning, dropping his shoulders when it was ignored.

"I saw you sit by while your department was unfairly accused of wrongdoing, and you did nothing to stand up for it."

"That's odd. Were we at the same meeting?" the sheriff asked unpleasantly. "Because the only one I heard being accused was you. Are you hiding something? Is there a reason you're so hostile to this?"

"Look, we're all tense," Ecklie began. "That meeting didn't go as well as it could have…"

"I'm hiding nothing," Grissom snapped harshly. "And I think I have every reason to be hostile. It's bad enough we're wasting time with this political bullshit, but to have what happened twisted around into a witch hunt…"

"Twisted according to you."

"Ask anyone on my team."

"Oh, I plan to. I have to say this entire thing bothers me," Burdick said, standing up to stare at him.

"What bothers you is what this might do to your political career."

"Gil, don't. Go home," Ecklie said, trying to get between the two men.

"You don't give a damn what happens to this department," Grissom continued. "As long as your reputation remains intact, you don't care what happens to anyone else or our cases."

"Enough! This meeting is over."

"Good. Then I'll get back to my own investigation," Grissom said, storming towards the door.

"No, you won't."

Spinning around, he found Burdick approaching him with his hand held out. "Your badge and gun."

"What?"

"It's called insubordination. Dr. Grissom, until further notice, you are on suspension."

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** My betas are AWOL - read at your own risk. Sorry for delay with this chapter. I had to rewrite Chapter 8 to fix a plot hole.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

When Sara pulled into the construction company's parking lot, Brass pushed off his car and walked over to greet her. "Good morning, sunshine. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind waiting for you, but why are we here in the first place? I had a nice appointment planned with my bed."

"Brian Wilcox's fingerprints match the ones we found in Rachel's car."

He shrugged good-naturedly, smiling when she gladly took the cup of coffee he offered. "That works for me."

"And he has a record. Embezzlement," Sara said, handing him a copy of Wilcox's file before taking a long drink.

"White-collar stuff. Not the typical path to violent crimes."

"I'm wondering if he tried a different type of embezzlement, and something went wrong."

"Kidnapping attempt? It's possible. The Kenyons have the money. Let's see what Mr. Wilcox has to say for himself. That's him by the truck," Brass said, nodding at a tall, thin man looking over invoices.

Wilcox looked up when they were a few feet away, casting a nervous glance at the truck behind him. He climbed into it and was getting ready to leave when Brass called out to him to stop.

"In a hurry to leave? But we just got here."

"Yeah. I have to deliver this stuff. Who are you?"

"Well, we won't take much of your time," Brass said as he pulled out his badge. "And I'm sure the Kenyons won't mind, seeing as it's about Rachel."

Wilcox shrugged, but turned off the engine. "Sorry. I don't know what I can tell you about that. I don't know anything."

"You could start by telling us why your fingerprints were found in her car," Sara said, taking out her flashlight and examining the front of the truck.

"What?"

"Does that surprise you?" Brass asked with an amused look. "And you thought you wiped down the entire interior. Wanna guess where you missed?"

"Wha…no! I didn't wipe anything down. Man, don't pull that shit with me. You can't trick me into admitting stuff that didn't happen."

"Oh, my mistake. You're not a common thug. You have a degree. Bet that made a big impression with your cellmate."

"Whatever," Wilcox replied. "It's no big deal that you found my prints in there. I had to take her car to the garage sometimes. Get her oil changed, take it to get detailed, crap like that."

"Sounds like you resented it," Brass pushed.

He scowled, but gave a non-committal grunt. "She isn't the one that has to get all this work done. She had the time to do it herself, and it's not what I was hired for."

"But you did it," Sara said, looking in the passenger side window and scanning the interior of the truck. "And that's why you said your prints were in her car."

"That _is_ why there were there. And it's not like I had a choice about doing it. She's a _supervisor_," Wilcox said mockingly.

"That's such a friendly attitude," Brass quipped.

"Spare me. She wasn't anyone's friend. She couldn't be bothered talking to any of us that worked in the yard."

"Rachel's shy," Sara said.

"Sure she is."

"So, if she was this terrible person, why did you take her car to the shop for her?" Brass asked. "It wasn't your job, and she wasn't your friend, so why bother? And I'm sure someone can verify that you actually did take her car in."

Wilcox glared at him angrily. "I have bills to pay, and I don't want to lose this job. If Rachel said to do something, you did it. The Kenyons acted like she was really part of their family."

Sara narrowed her eyes, causing Brass to give her a concerned look. Noting his attention, she shrugged and focused on Wilcox. "And she helped with the paperwork, the books, payroll. She's just a college student. You're an accountant, and you're stuck doing deliveries."

"I could do it better and faster than her. She always made mistakes, but no one listened to me. They found them the hard way."

"Yeah, imagine that. No one wanted to take accounting advice from an embezzler," Brass said. "Even if you did know what you were doing. Well, maybe not. You did get caught, and you didn't even steal that much money. You can't be that good."

"I didn't do anything. I'm the one that pointed out the mistakes in the company books," Wilcox said angrily.

"Right. After the bank sent a notice that something was wrong. And it was just a coincidence that you had all those extra deposits in your bank account. The jury didn't buy it."

"The jury? Please. You have to be an idiot not to get out of jury duty."

"Or be civic-minded," Sara noted, ignoring Wilcox's obscene response. "Where were you the night Rachel went missing?"

"At home. Watching TV, drinking beer."

"No one saw you?" Brass asked. "No alibi? That's too bad. For you."

"Ohh, you're so scary," Wilcox sneered. "I didn't do shit, and you don't have nothing on me. If you did, I wouldn't be here. Just 'cause I have a record doesn't make me guilty of anything. I don't know what happened to Rachel. I don't know if she had anyone that could stand to be around her, so don't ask me if she has any friends."

"How about if I ask you about these?"

He turned towards Sara, who held out a photocopy of one of the sheets of paper she'd been piecing together earlier. She noted his swallowing and his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"So, you know what those are," Brass said, having also seen his reaction.

Wilcox took a deep breath and shook his head. "I don't know what it is. It's something I threw away."

"Why?" Sara asked.

"What do you mean why? It was trash."

"If you don't know what it is, how did you know it was trash?" she asked, an eyebrow rising slowly.

Wilcox remained quiet, but glared at her for a long moment. Sara returned his look with her own calm gaze. He finally broke contact and stared out of the front window. "It was torn up and on the ground."

"You're sure about that? It's not something you tore up yourself to get rid of?" Brass asked. "We can tell, you know. Those dumb juries really don't like guys that change their stories."

"I don't know. It was on the ground. Maybe I tore it up. Maybe I didn't. Who cares? It's just trash."

Sara watched him closely. His body language clearly showed he was agitated, but trying not to show it. He also had reason to be nervous. As the only ex-con employed by the Kenyons, he was the obvious first suspect. "So you have no idea what these letters represent?"

"No. It's nothing like we used around here. Are we done? I gotta get this stuff delivered to the site."

"Would you mind providing a DNA sample?" Sara asked, pulling out a swab.

"Not at all. As soon as you get a warrant."

"Nice guy," Brass said sarcastically after he drove away. "Real scumbag material. And he's lying."

"About something," Sara agreed. "Or he's really bitter."

"Nah. You heard him talk about losing this job. He was nervous. To me, that says he's been in trouble, and I bet Rachel was involved somehow. And you really freaked him with that paper. What is it?"

"I have no idea. I found a bunch of these pages in the dumpster. I wasn't sure if it meant anything or not. I was hoping someone here could tell me what it was."

"From his reaction, I'd say they are something."

Sara grinned. "Yeah, I think you're right. All I need is to figure out what. Even Grissom didn't know what they are."

"Oh, well, I guess that makes it a real mystery," Brass said dramatically, giving her a hurt look. "I noticed you didn't bother to ask me about them."

"You know what these are?" she asked excitedly.

"Nope," he replied, rocking back on his heels with a grin.

"This is why people don't ask you things," she replied with her own grin. "Do you think he's telling the truth about the car? He's definitely taller than Rachel. It would explain why his prints were on the seat control."

"I'm going to talk to the foster parents. I'll see if they can verify his story. You want to tag along?"

"No, I need to get to the library, see if Rachel ever made it there the night she disappeared."

"Damn!"

"What?" Sara asked, snapping her head up.

"You're yawning. You! And no one is here to see it besides me. No one is going to believe me."

"Why does everyone think I never sleep? I do," she groused.

"Maybe because you're always at work."

"That's because I have no social life."

Brass gave her a knowing smile. "I think you have that backwards. You don't have time for a social life. Try spending some more time away from the lab. It'll be good for you. Trust me; I found out the hard way."

Sara shook her head as she walked back to her car. Getting in, she finished off the last of the coffee Brass had supplied, and closed her eyes in exhaustion. The caffeine boost was welcomed, but it did little to help. As much as she wanted to sleep, she still had to stop by the library, and Wilcox needed checking out.

She also hoped to avoid Grissom. She was just too tired to deal with his current confusing behavior. A long breakfast was the answer. Pulling out her cell phone, she pushed speed dial, grinning at the enthusiastic answer.

"Easy, Greg. You're still at the lab? Good. You still interested in going out?"

* * *

Swallowing the painkillers, Grissom closed his eyes and leaned against his refrigerator. He stood silently, letting the coolness from the metal sink in. His head ached, but it wasn't a migraine. That didn't bring him much comfort; his current mental distress rivaled his worst migraine. At least he could understand physical pain. Personal issues were never his strong suit, and the emotional whirlpool facing him now was incomprehensible. 

Work defined who he was. It was a constant in his life, a source of pride and satisfaction. His professional standing was unquestioned. There had been troubles before, and Mobley suspended him once, but even that was in the form of a forced vacation. There was no record of it, nothing permanent to tarnish his reputation.

How had everything changed so quickly? Even when he was cleared, there would always be questions and those who doubted him. He refused to consider what would happen if he weren't cleared, but his stomach knotted painfully.

Groaning softly, he stood up straight to drain his bottle of water. After double-checking that the front door was unlocked, and his cell phone was on, he collapsed on the couch and waited. If he knew Catherine, she'd be in contact the moment she learned about his suspension.

He didn't like the idea of talking about personal matters at the best of times, and his friendship with her was on questionable standings, but he still wanted her to show up. He had doubts about her judgment, but he knew she was better at this sort of thing. If nothing else, she'd be able to steer clear of all the jetsam, and get to the heart of the matter. The dynamics of what just happened, and the implications of it eluded him.

"Or I don't want to admit it," he said to the empty room, a lone eyebrow rising.

Glancing at the door, he began rubbing his temples. Myer's accusations stung, and the absurdity of the claims made it worse. Nick was perfectly qualified for the position of Lead CSI. He hadn't handled things well, but Myers had an agenda. She twisted his actions. His decision to recommend Nick for the promotion wasn't sexist. Even if he had recommended Sara, she'd have found a way to use that against him.

Giving his head a shake, Grissom turned on the television, but the flashing images didn't register as he flipped through the channels. He'd done nothing wrong. Certainly nothing that warranted his current situation. Political interference – that's all it was.

But how did it seem to Sara?

He frowned as he recalled the pained look in her eyes when he explained his reasons for recommending Nick. Even Grissom never really believed them; the promotion was another situation he didn't want to handle, so he relied on avoidance. He'd taken the easy way out, refusing to deal with what threatened to be an emotionally unpleasant task. Now he had to deal with the consequences.

_"You just want someone to care."_ The words from his earlier conversation with Sara came back unbidden, and Grissom closed his eyes painfully. _"And you don't care what you have to go through to get that. It's stupid, and deep down, you know it and you hate yourself for it, but you still put up with all kinds of shit just to get that one word of praise or that one caring touch." _

"Dammit," he swore loudly, walking to the kitchen to get another drink. He never meant to hurt her. Discourage her, yes, but never this. But there was no denying the outcome. Sara regretted ever opening up to him, and she didn't think he trusted her. He'd pushed too hard, too far.

The eventual growling of his stomach reminded him that he skipped breakfast. With an ironic sigh, he remembered that he'd intended to visit Sara to reassure her, but he'd gotten distracted by his own concerns. Grissom looked at his watch and dropped his head. She was exhausted; there was no chance that she'd still be awake.

Besides, what could he say to her?

Getting up, he moved to the kitchen to fix breakfast, making enough coffee for two. He glanced at the door a few times before finally eating his meal alone. Wandering back into his living room, he switched to the news, but the story about the lack of progress on the Mathers's case fired his temper again.

Grissom turned off the television, settling for Chopin on his stereo before turning to his bookcases. His eyes drifted over the titles randomly, but one narrow volume caught his attention. Smiling bitterly, he pulled it out and walked back to his couch.

He waited for Catherine to show up, eventually falling asleep with his book.

_TBC _


	10. Chapter 10

**Quiet Desperation  
********Summary:** When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Marlou for the beta. Again, sorry for delay with this chapter. The real world won't go away.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Sitting down at the small table in the crowded office, Brass declined a cup of coffee as he appraised the Kenyons. Like Grissom, he hated political interference with his job. Unlike his friend, he recognized it was a reality in their field. And the pair in front of him were trouble. They had connections, and they were pissed. It didn't take a reclusive genius to understand that was never a good combination.

_Actually, the reclusive genius probably couldn't figure that out,_ he thought to himself. _All those brains and no sense. In so many ways..._

"What can you tell us?" Mrs. Kenyon demanded immediately.

"Not much," Brass said, watching coolly as she turned impatiently in her chair. "Because I wasn't the cop that started this investigation. He's on a forced vacation. And that means I have to start cold on the case. That's never a good thing."

"Do you know what he…"

"No, I don't. And I don't really care. It's not important right now. Look, do you want to get your kid back?"

"Of course we do," Mr. Kenyon said with a dangerous tone. "It's all we ever wanted."

"Then let me do my job. You can complain and point fingers _after_ we find Rachel. If you're fighting us, then that's time and energy taken away from the search. Let's focus on what's important now. Capiche?"

Brass waited until the parents settled down. They weren't appeased, but they seemed ready to set aside their anger. "Good. Now let's start at the beginning. Think hard about this. Did she say anything about anyone bothering her or following her?"

"No. We told that other detective that," Mrs. Kenyon said angrily until her husband rested a hand on her arm.

"Look, I have a kid. She's not much older than Rachel. If I were in your place, I know I'd be upset, too. But like I said – I'm just starting this case. I need to get up to speed. It won't take long to go over this stuff, and it'll help my investigation."

"No, she didn't say anything like that. She would have told us if someone was bothering her."

"And no one was hanging around the house or around the office," Mr. Kenyon added.

Brass went over the timeline of the night Rachel disappeared, asking detailed questions about when they last saw her. He knew exactly what they told Vartan earlier; he wanted to see if their story changed. For all their outrage, the simple truth was they were still suspects. No one could verify what they said happened that night. And his background searches didn't give him a happy feeling.

They answered his questions, but he noted their irritated manner. The specifics were the same, but it wasn't a verbatim copy of their earlier statement. If they practiced what to say, they had the sense to not to memorize a speech.

"You're treating us like we're suspects," Mr. Kenyon noted.

"That's because you are," Brass answered with a shrug. "Hey. It's the way it works. You were the last ones to see her. That means we start with you. We have to rule you out as suspects."

"That's crazy. We've been nothing but truthful with you," the wife snapped.

"Even when you faked a ransom note? I know, I know. You did it to draw attention to Rachel. I understand. Honestly, I do. But things like that don't look good for you. Neither does the fact that you neglected to mention that your attempts to adopt Rachel were rejected."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, you were rejected because of your husband's drinking problems. Arrested three times for assault. Bar fights – doesn't look good on the father-of-the-year awards, does it?"

"How dare you?" Mrs. Kenyon asked in a low voice.

"Hon, let me. Let's get this out of the way. Yeah, I was a jerk. Years ago. Before we even took Rachel in. I've been in AA ever since. I haven't had a drop to drink in fourteen years, and I never hurt Rachel or my wife. And the foster care system accepted it. They let us take in Rachel, and they let her stay with us."

"And Rachel is nineteen. She's out of the foster care system, and she chose to stay with us. She didn't have to. She _wanted_ to. We _wanted_ her to. We _want_ her back. More than anything. So you can sit there and drag up our pasts all you want. Take all the potshots you want, just go find Rachel when you're done."

Brass tilted his head to the side silently, waiting until Mrs. Kenyon brought her tears under control. "Okay, tell me about Brian Wilcox."

"What about him? He works for us. And yes, I know he has a record. That's why we don't let him near the books."

"We found his fingerprints in Rachel's car. He said he took the car in to be detailed, stuff like that."

"It's…possible," Mr. Kenyon began. "Technically, the car belongs to the company. Rachel uses it when she delivers things for us, and since she does that around her school schedule, we let her use it for school, too."

"Look, I'm not with the IRS. Relax. Did he ever have any run-ins with Rachel?"

"Well, he doesn't get along with anyone. He's got a real attitude problem, but he got his job done."

"Rachel never complained about him bothering her, though. It wasn't like he was in the office that much," Mrs. Kenyon said. "Damn. I knew hiring him was going to be a mistake."

"I'll take care of it later," her husband said softly.

"Hey, it could be nothing. Like you said, it was a company car. Just wanted to know if there was a reason his prints were on the car. What about John Malco?"

The Kenyons turned to each other questioningly, both of them shaking their heads. "I have no idea who that is," he said.

"He was a driver with Ronnie's Concrete."

"We don't use them. Most of our work goes to Tri-County. I know the owner."

"Ever have any work done at Dvorak's auto body shop?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Kenyon said. "I'll have to go through the records and check. Once in a while, one of our trucks or vans get damaged, but the insurance company usually gives us a name of a shop to use."

"You do that. Here's my card. Let me know what you find out."

Walking outside, Brass let out a sigh. The foster parents seemed genuinely upset and anxious to get the kid back. But he'd been working the job too long to be swayed by their anger or tears. His gut said they weren't involved, but he had to check them out. He hoped he'd convinced the Kenyons that he needed to do it, but they were upset over Vartan's unprofessional behavior. Getting into his car, he wondered how long it would take before he got called into the sheriff's office.

* * *

"In case no one's ever told you before, you have a twisted sense of humor," an irate Greg stated. 

Sara grinned before answering lightly. "I told you to dress down."

"This was not what I had in mind when I said I wanted out of the lab."

Shifting her cell phone to her other hand, she leaned against the side of the university library and yawned deeply. The caffeine boost from earlier was fading fast. "Hey, the job is to follow the evidence. We don't get to pick and choose where we go."

"And it's just a coincidence that you aren't knee deep in garbage."

"No, I was on the other side of town. You were closer to Wilcox's house, and I'm at the university. Buck up, Greg. Trust me. There are a lot of things out there worse than shifting through someone's garbage."

"Right. So what exactly am I looking for?" he asked with a dramatic sigh.

"Evidence."

"Again with the sense of humor thing," he said, but with a mischievous tone. "I wasn't kidding earlier. This guy's trashcans are overflowing. There're bags of stuff all over the place. This is nasty."

Sara's eyebrow rose slowly as she bit back a sharp response. She was tired and not in the mood for his grousing. If he couldn't handle trash, he'd never survive a liquefied body. "Greg, think about what you just said."

A short silence followed. "Trash pickup is twice a week. Why does a single guy have so much garbage? Unless he has something he wants to get rid of."

"Haul it all in to the lab, and sort through it. Make sure to test the cans for evidence of blood. If you need help, call a tech out there to help you. And be on the lookout for any pieces of paper with odd writing on them."

"Odd in what way?"

"Any way. Cryptic messages. Odd letter arrangements," Sara said around another yawn. After a last round of instructions, she hung up and made her way into the library. Finding the service desk, she showed her badge and found the student who worked the night of Mathers's disappearance.

"I don't remember seeing her. Ever. Not just that night. She's the girl that's missing, isn't she?" asked the young woman.

"Yes, she is. Can you see if she checked out any books that night?"

"Sure. Hold on for a minute. No, she checked out some stuff a couple nights before that, but that's it."

"What about IDs? There's a swipe card lock to get in. Does the library keep records of that?" Sara asked, resting her elbows on the desk while the girl went to get her supervisor.

Closing her eyes, she fought back the exhaustion and tried to concentrate on the case. They had little physical evidence, and it didn't take her long to mentally review it. So what else did they have?

Victims of violent crimes usually knew their attackers. Rachel had a boyfriend. No one reported any fights between them, but Sara knew that didn't rule out a troubled relationship. But the boyfriend was in class or at work most of the night of her disappearance. The short periods of time for which he had no alibis were too short to accomplish much, making him an unlikely suspect.

Her foster parents were the last to see her. They had no alibi, and no one could verify their account of Rachel's leaving the office to deliver some paperwork. They seemed like a loving family, but that also wasn't a guarantee.

There was Wilcox. It wasn't scientific, but his behavior triggered suspicions in both her and Brass. Those sheets of paper bothered him; he hadn't hid his nervousness when she showed them to him. But she had no idea what they meant, or if they were even related to the case.

Hearing the footsteps approaching her, Sara stood up straight. After introducing herself, she asked if there were records of who entered the building. The supervisor gave her a sheepish look, but began a computer search.

"There's no record of Rachel being here that night," he said, fidgeting nervously. "But we've been having trouble with the system. Since so many people were coming in to study for finals, we had all the lines open. It's possible she used her ID to get in, but there's no record of it. I didn't see her that night, but like I said it was busy. That doesn't mean she wasn't here."

"Did you know her?"

"Not well. She spent a lot of time here. I helped her find some books once, and she always said hello to me when she came in after that. Such a nice girl. Would you like to see her study cubicle?"

"That would be great." Sara followed him to an isolated corner of the library. A long row of reserved desks ran along a wall, and he led her to one at the end. "Pretty isolated area."

"Yes. That's what Rachel liked about it. She liked to study without interruptions. This area doesn't get a lot of people through it. I don't know why she spent so much time here. She was very bright. She didn't need to study all the time, but it's like she wanted to prove something. Or herself."

Sara nodded knowingly. She understood what drove Rachel. Books had always been her escape when her parents fought. After entering foster care and learning that her childhood hadn't been normal, she'd been confused. Schoolwork was something she knew she could do. It was something she understood, and she could control how well she did in school. Excelling at anything was a lifeline.

Grissom didn't realize what it was like. No one could who hadn't been through it. They could sympathize, but that wasn't the same as understanding.

Giving her head a shake, she pulled out a flashlight. A stack of books lay on top of the desk, several of them open or with Post-it notes sticking out of them. Frowning, she began to examine the area closely. "Does the staff put books away?"

"From the study cubicles? Not immediately. We have carts where the students can return the books when they are done with them, and we reshelf them."

"Thanks. I'll be a few minutes here," she said, pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket. Once the supervisor left, she took out her camera and photographed some fibers embedded in a crack on the desk. After fingerprinting the desk and books, she gathered her evidence and walked back to the front of the library. A book title caught her attention, and she was scanning the books in the section when the supervisor inched his way over.

"Can I help you with anything else?"

"Yeah. Can I borrow some of these books?" she asked with a smile.

* * *

A shrill ringing caused Sara to jerk her head up quickly, and she groaned at the pain that shot through her head and neck. Her hand snatched out to grab the cell phone on the second ring, nearly knocking over the half-empty beer bottle. 

After leaving the library, she skipped breakfast and headed straight home with her research books. She'd meant to just skim over them, until she found a promising section. Having only a beer for breakfast when she was so exhausted had been a mistake, and she'd fallen asleep sitting on the floor in front of her coffee table.

"Sidle," she muttered, using her free hand to rub the knotted muscles in her neck and upper shoulders. Checking her watch, Sara found she'd been asleep probably six hours in that position.

As she sat up and blinked away the sleep, it dawned on her that Grissom had never showed up. She'd been asleep, but she was a light sleeper. If he'd knocked on her door – especially with her in the living room – she'd have heard him.

Even though she actively discouraged him from showing up, the fact that he didn't still left her somewhat bothered and confused. When he offered, she hadn't been up to talking, but she hoped he hadn't taken it personally. She didn't want to hurt him. She cared too much for that. With Grissom, it was always hard to say how he'd react, though.

"Hey, it's Brass. You okay? You sound like shit."

"Was asleep."

"You? I don't believe it."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Jim, but bite me," she said, pausing to take a sip of the beer and grimacing at the warm taste. It did help to clear her head even if it upset her stomach. "I think I figured out what those papers Wilcox threw away were. Sorta. I'll need to talk to him to completely decipher them."

"Well, that's going to be a problem. Someone put three bullets in his skull and dumped his body in the desert."

_TBC _


	11. Chapter 11

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Marlou for the beta.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**  
Chapter 11**

Grissom was in his kitchen making a fresh batch of coffee when the door to his townhouse slammed open. He'd slept poorly; the events of the last few days continued to torment him in his dreams. After a long shower, he'd checked his messages and seen that she was on her way over.

"Hello, Catherine," he called out as he continued his preparations. "I've been expecting you."

"Don't give me that shit."

"And a good afternoon, too," he said dryly as he tilted his head to the side.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded as she entered his kitchen, waving him off when he offered her a plate of cookies. "I get a call from Burdick telling me I'm now working graveyard. I swear, if you pulled me away from my own shift…"

"Trust me, Catherine, this wasn't my idea."

In her annoyance, she'd yet to notice his demeanor. Watching him closely, she saw the signs he tried to mask. There was anger, but more troubling was a raw pain. Something had to be terribly wrong for him to even allow those traces to show. "What happened?" she asked, her voice softening with concern.

Grissom busied himself with the coffee mugs. It wasn't until she repeated the question that he set down the cups and rested his hands on the counter. With a half-hearted shrug, he turned to her. "I've been suspended."

She stared at him for a long beat before throwing her hands into the air. That revelation was shocking, but he wasn't telling her everything. "You were what? What the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do a thing."

"So Burdick just suspended you for the fun of it? Come on, Gil. Give me some credit. You had to do something. What grounds did he use?"

"Insubordination. And my anger was justified," he insisted.

"Why don't you just start at the beginning," she sighed, pulling the plate of cookies closer as she rested her head on her hand.

Grissom returned to fiddling with the mugs, making a pretense of checking the progress of the coffee maker. As much as he wanted her guidance, he was also hesitant to talk. The suspension hurt; his job at the lab was more than a career. For him, it was who he was. He never had to pick this lifestyle; he was born to it. What he did defined his whole self-image, and he felt lost.

Even worse was the reason for the suspension. It was groundless, but that didn't make it any less insidious. Once uttered, the charge was there. Once planted, it would persist, no matter the reality. People would always wonder if there was any truth to it – human nature guaranteed that.

He wasn't a sexist. Old-fashioned, probably, at least in some ways. But his decision not to recommend Sara for the promotion had nothing to do with her sex. Letting out a sigh, he rocked a cup between his hands. In a strictly technical sense, her gender did play into it; he was attracted to her, and in his inability to deal with it directly, he'd set in motion the current situation.

What did she think about it? Sara had to know he wasn't sexist. Grissom remembered her hurt expression when they 'talked' about the promotion in the garage, and he wondered if the reason really made any difference to her.

It would, he decided. At the very least, he owed her an explanation. She was as qualified, if not more so, than Nick for the position. He'd handled it poorly, and he would apologize for that.

All he needed to do was figure out how to do so without coming out and telling her how much he cared; without letting her know the way she thrilled and scared him at the same time; the way she could either be his salvation or his destruction.

Nothing major.

"Gil, a watched pot never boils. And a watched coffee pot doesn't brew," Catherine said kindly.

"Actually, it will," he replied, finally turning around. "I timed it."

"You would."

"I was nine. I thought that saying was stupid. I disproved it."

"Do you really think this is going to be easier if you avoid it?" she asked.

Grissom's eyebrow rose; in spite of their recent differences, she was as direct as ever. After taking a breath, he recounted all that had happened in his meeting with Burdick. Catherine occasionally stopped him to clarify a point, or to ask for extra details, but kept her explosion in check until he finished.

"Dammit! What the hell was Sara trying to pull?"

The venomous tone surprised Grissom, again reminding him that he'd underestimated the bad blood between the two female CSIs. His earlier desire to talk to Catherine started to fade. He wanted her assistance, but he now doubted whether she'd really help. "Sara had nothing to do with this."

"Then how did Myers know what was going on? Personnel records are private. Even a special counsel can't get those. Unless they were supplied."

"Sara had nothing to do with this," Grissom repeated, his impatience clear. Catherine rolled her eyes, but he pressed on. "The promotion wasn't some sort of secret. We have leaks in the office. There's nothing new about that. She probably has someone on the inside giving her information."

"You ever hear of Occam's Razor? You know, the simplest explanation is the best one. In my book, I'd say getting the information directly is a hell of a lot simpler than getting it from some unknown Mr. X."

"And if you really believed in Occam's Razor, you'd know that the idea of Sara pulling some sort of game would be high on the improbability list. It's not the type of person she is. She's not petty, and she would never endanger an investigation with personal issues. You're confusing her with someone else," he said pointedly.

Catherine leaned back in her chair and gave him a sharp look. "And you don't think she has any reason to want to get you?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Grissom focused on keeping his breathing even, but it did little to help his temper. He was tired, stressed and in no mood for this. But he needed guidance. He had no patience with office politics and even less skill. Catherine excelled in that area. If he wanted to minimize the damage, he'd need her help.

"Look, I know you have some sort of issue with Sara. I don't know why, and right now, I really don't care. I admit she was upset about the promotion," he said, the words reluctantly forming.

"And other things," Catherine said.

"Be that as it may, she's not involved in this."

"How can you be so sure?"

Grissom took his mug of coffee and moved to a window. Lifting the blinds with one hand, he stared silently. Her line of questioning was bothering him. Just how much animosity had he missed over the years? Sara never mentioned any problems, but he realized she wouldn't. She was too professional to let problems with a coworker distract her.

"It's been handled."

"Since when have you ever worked through an issue? Especially a personal one?"

Grissom snapped his head in her direction, but his glare didn't bother her. Eventually he returned to staring out the window as he considered her question. He had no idea where he really stood with Sara, but they'd worked well together since then. They'd even joked some. More importantly, she'd confided painful secrets to him.

But he also just admitted that she wouldn't let issues with another CSI affect her work. Grissom had no clue what she felt about the incident or towards him; she just wasn't letting it stop her from working with him.

"I really don't need this right now," he said lowly.

"Do you even know what you need?" Catherine countered hotly, getting up to storm around his living room. Noting his avoidance when she returned to the kitchen, she dropped her shoulders sadly. She couldn't remember him ever looking this defeated. "Hell, Gil, do you even know what you want?"

"To be left alone comes to mind," he answered, not bothering to face her. This wasn't helping. She was bringing up things he'd rather not think about.

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it?"

"Forty-two is actually the answer to everything."

"What?" Catherine demanded before giving her head a shake. "Never mind. You know what I'm talking about. Anytime you're faced with something that makes you uncomfortable, you lock yourself up in this, this…"

"Townhouse?"

"Mausoleum!"

The unexpected reply caused Grissom to turn away from the window. Any earlier anger was gone from her eyes, replaced by friendly exasperation. Scratching his beard, he debated his next move. He did want her help getting around the suspension, but the side trip into personal issues was unwelcome. Deciding he could tolerate a few more minutes of this if she would help him, he grabbed the coffee pot and topped off their mugs.

Catherine sized him up, and let out a long sigh as she looked around. "It's dead. Nothing ever changes in here. You've lived here ever since I met you, and you've never even redecorated. You've never even repainted the damned walls."

"And that's a sign of a serious character flaw. Interesting analysis," he said, blinking in confusion. "I wouldn't recommend writing a book about it, though."

"Gil _…_ Life is about living. That means change."

"I like my house. It's comfortable."

"Because it doesn't change."

"Exactly," he said, not bothering to hide his bafflement.

"You don't get it," she exhaled. "Okay, let's try something scientific sounding. Adapt. Living things adapt. They react to the world around them. You don't. You lock yourself away in here, and you try to ignore everything that's going on around you. Hell, look at your walls."

Frowning, he did so, hoping her rant would end and they'd get to work-related matters soon. "What about them?"

"The only things in here with any color are the butterflies. You put them behind glass, where you can never touch them, or be touched by them."

"I think you're over-analyzing the situation," he said with more patience than he felt. "They're behind glass for a reason."

"Yeah, because they're dead!"

Grissom pulled his head back at the force of her statement.

"The only thing of beauty in your life, and you kill it. You put it away where you can look at it, but you never touch it. Where it can never touch you. That's all you do."

"Can we please change the subject?" he asked quietly.

"Sure," Catherine answered, sensing she'd pushed him too far. Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, she slid the last cookie towards him. She smiled as Grissom took it, but the distracted manner in which he nibbled it convinced her that he didn't really taste it.

She shook her head knowingly. That was always his problem; he never thought about the little things. He was alive, but he never _lived_. He focused everything on one small part of his life to the exclusion of everything – and everyone – else. That meant he was very good at what he did, but there wasn't much he could do outside of his job.

Especially when it came to people skills. As much as his recent attitude irked her, she owed him. He needed her help, and she was certain he had no idea how badly.

"I know you're upset, but you have to promise me that you won't cause any more trouble," she directed, holding up her hand when he started to protest. "I'm serious. Stay away from Burdick, anything to do with this case. Don't do anything to aggravate the situation."

"I think I can handle a low profile until this blows over."

"Gil, what are you talking about? This isn't going to blow over."

"Why not?" he asked, equally bewildered and nervous.

"Another sexual harassment scandal!" Catherine barked, shaking her head at his perplexed look. "God, you have no idea. Big surprise."

"Then explain it to me. I'm a little lost."

"At his last job, there was a big sexual harassment scandal. A lot of the people that worked under him were involved. Burdick managed to convince the investigators that he didn't know about it, but the scandal was a big issue when he ran for sheriff."

"None of that involves me," Grissom said with a scowl.

"Yes, it does! Look, you like to think that if you avoid something, it'll go away, but that doesn't make it true. Whether you like it or not, you're part of the human race. What happens with other people affects you, and what you do affects others. Deal with it. This does involve you."

"You can't honestly believe there's any truth to this?" he asked in a hurt tone.

"Of course not. But what I think doesn't matter. Burdick barely won the last election because of a scandal. He'll never survive another one, and he's ambitious as hell," she said, her voice and eyes carrying a warning. "Gil, hon, I'm serious. He won't hesitate to throw you to the wolves to save his own career."

Grissom sat in a stunned silence. Earlier, he had worried about what the accusation would do to his reputation, but that had been more of an annoyance than a fear. The people who knew him would know the truth, and his professional reputation was unquestionable.

But if he lost his job over this? He'd never completely recover. The charge would resurface every time he had to testify. He'd never get a job with a decent lab. No one would hire him as an expert witness. Universities may not even want him.

He'd lose everything.

Unable to comprehend the situation, he staggered to his living room in a daze. Grissom sank onto his couch and dropped his head into his hands. This was a nightmare. It had to be. Nothing else explained it.

When his hands pulled away, he became aware that Catherine had sat on the coffee table in front of him. She gave him a worried look. "I asked you if you'd done anything."

"What?"

"Since being suspended. Did you say anything to Burdick, contact the Kenyons or Myers?"

"No. I read," he said, smiling humorlessly as he pointed to the book at her side.

Catherine's eyes darted from the book to his face and back. Frowning, she tried to figure out what caused his reaction. She knew he was shocked, but how badly? "Are you okay?"

"It was more apropos than I realized."

"That you read a book?"

"That I read _that_ book," he said. "_Walden_ by Thoreau. 'The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.' He knew what he was talking about."

"Welcome to Vegas, Gil. If you can't take care of desperation here, it's hopeless. I know some clubs," she quipped, trying to cheer him up.

Grissom let out a sigh and waved her away. He recognized her attempt at humor, but it didn't help. Nor was he in the frame of mind to explain it.

"Don't worry."

"You're the one that said this won't blow over," he pointed out irritably.

"No, but that doesn't mean we'll let it steamroll you. Think. Did you ever have a run-in with Myers before?"

"Not that I remember, but…"

"But we deal with thousands of people over the years. You had to, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"Myers is good. Her rep is solid. She wouldn't misconstrue something like this unless she was out to get you."

"Who handled Burdick's investigation?" Grissom asked suddenly. "In that other scandal you talked about?"

Catherine's eyes opened wide as she followed his train of thought. If Myers cleared him once, but another potential scandal happened after that, she might be out for blood. "I don't know, but I'll check. You think Myers is out to get him through you? I'm not sure I buy that. Doesn't sound like her."

"At this point, there's nothing that would surprise me," he said, all his emotional confusion concentrated into vehemence.

"I'll check that out. You stay away from this," she said, getting up and putting the dishes into his sink.

He stood up and headed towards his door. "I think I need some time. This was a lot to process."

"Give me a call if you need anything."

"I will. Catherine," he called out before she walked out of sight. When she turned to him, Grissom hesitated; he hated getting involved with his employees' personal lives, but this was necessary. "Sara had nothing to do with this. Remember that."

After a beat, she shrugged. "If you say so."

"I do. And thanks."

Once alone, he locked his door and returned to his couch, closing his eyes as he sank into the leather. Despite Catherine's optimistic pledge, Grissom placed little faith in it. He couldn't; at the moment, there was nothing he had faith in. Being a criminalist was his life; it formed the foundation of his world.

Or it had.

"It can't be gone." He'd spoken softly, but the sound carried easily. Catherine's words came back as he dropped his head. He was alone. If she was right about this, his career was over. What did he have in its place?

The room slowly darkened as he sat there, trying to figure out how to salvage something from this mess. Nagging doubts about whether it was worth it began to plague him. He'd sacrificed everything for this life, and in a minute, office politics destroyed it. He was adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions, and he had nothing to anchor himself.

Hearing the knock at the door, Grissom turned his head toward it. His initial inclination was to ignore it. He wasn't up for another round with Catherine, but he knew she wouldn't go away. Opening it, he stared as Sara gave him a cautious smile.

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** A big thanks goes out to mystery for her assistance with this chapter.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Yes, I really do own CSI. To maintain my evil reputation, I will not allow the characters to get involved. Bwhahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"Hey," Sara said. Her hand made a small waving motion as she rocked back on her heels with a nervous energy. She had debated the wisdom of this visit during the whole drive. Grissom was very private, and his home was the ultimate expression of that. He did not welcome visitors. But she needed to talk to him, and she doubted this was a conversation he wanted to have at the lab.

Despite her earlier discouragement, it bothered her that he hadn't shown up at her apartment that morning. As much as she hated to admit it, this case was getting to her. She had a small, nearly invisible wound; some might say it was her past, or her professional inclination to become too involved in her cases, but whatever the reason, cases like this one kept that wound from ever really healing.

Sara had tried to deal with the effects it had on her, but Grissom's attempts to reach out only complicated things. It was unexpected, and she wasn't prepared to deal with it. Their prior conversation left her drained. She wasn't ready for another one; she needed some time alone.

But he had tried to help, and that was a rare gesture on his part. She also knew what it meant coming from him. And she had rejected his assistance. Sara hoped he didn't take that as a personal rejection. His attitude towards her was confusing, but she had no doubts about her feelings for him. She cared too much to hurt him.

Her smile faltered as he continued his silent stare. Standing on his doorstep left her feeling exposed. He hadn't returned her greeting, let alone asked her why she was there. She forced her smile back as she steeled herself.

"Hey. I, uh. I just wanted to come by and say that I'm sorry."

Sara wasn't sure how he'd react to her statement, but she never expected the pain and anger in his eyes. He dropped his head quickly, but she had no doubt about what she'd seen.

"You don't owe me an apology. This has nothing to do with you," Grissom answered brusquely.

"But you didn't show up this morning." Her confused frown deepened when his head snapped up quickly. He seemed as bewildered as she was becoming. "You said you were going to stop by my apartment. To talk."

"Oh. That."

"Yeah." She waited, thinking he was going to respond. He looked ready to speak a few times, and an odd play of emotions showed behind his eyes. It wasn't encouraging. When he didn't answer, Sara took a deep breath and rushed through her speech.

"You were right earlier. I wasn't getting enough sleep. And this case … it's tough for me in some ways. That bothered me. I was a bit _…_ cranky. I figured I had finally pissed you off royally. You didn't deserve that," she said, her voice wavering with emotion. "I didn't mean to hurt you. That's something I'd never do, not on purpose. Please believe me."

"Is that it?"

Sara's mouth dropped in astonishment. After a beat, she held up her hands and shook her head as she started to turn away. "Look, I guess I caught you at a bad time. See you later."

"Would you like to come in?"

Grissom nodded when Sara slowly turned to stare at him. He thought she had shown up because of his suspension, and that hurt. Over the years, he had dreamt of many scenarios where she showed up at his door, but never because she felt sorry for him. Pity was more than he could deal with, especially coming from her.

But his earlier embarrassment faded as an unexpected warmth filled him. She didn't know about the suspension. Sara cared. After everything that had happened, with all that was going on, she worried about him.

Seeing her uncertainty, Grissom tried to reassure her. "I'm sorry. I was … something came up during my meeting with the sheriff. It was late by the time I remembered. I didn't want to wake you."

"You're not angry?"

"With you? No." A tentative smile formed at his words, but he could see she had questions. He needed to tell her what had happened. She'd find out when she got to the office, and he didn't want her to face Catherine's ire unprepared.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"What?"

"Dinner," Grissom repeated, stepping back to invite her into his home. She followed, but with a look that strongly suggested that he needed a straightjacket. "I haven't eaten yet. Have you?"

"Uh, yeah. I had a sandwich before I left home."

"I missed lunch. And breakfast. I'm going to fix something. Make yourself comfortable. How's iced tea?"

"Uh, fine, I guess."

In his kitchen, Grissom set out some food and poured their drinks. He knew he was confusing her, but he didn't care. Sara's concern was the one bright spot in his miserable day, the one anchor he had in his emotional maelstrom. It was comforting in a way he never suspected, and he wanted it to last.

As he walked into his living room, she held up his copy of _Walden_, and gave him an amused smile. "Thinking about moving to the woods to become a hermit?"

He returned the smile fondly, even though her tone jokingly inferred he was already a hermit. If anyone had read the book, it would be her. Thoughts of his suspension hung over him, but he focused on her. It was more pleasant. "Actually, I've been thinking about the difference between knowledge and wisdom."

"Is this another one of your Zen puzzles?"

"Knowledge is the possession of facts. Wisdom is knowing how to apply those facts. I had the first but not the second."

Sara sipped her tea, never taking her eyes off of him as he moved to his kitchen. She followed him, taking a seat at his breakfast bar as he began chopping vegetables. Something was wrong; she was sure it extended beyond his odd behavior.

"Thoreau's point was that men were too materialistic," she said. "I'm not sure that applies to you."

Grissom tossed her a slice of green pepper, but didn't respond except to shrug. Her comments reminded him of how Catherine described his home. He always found it comforting, if minimalistic. At worst, it was a bit spartan. How did she see it? Her apartment was awash in color.

"He felt men focused on work to the exclusion of their spiritual life," he said when she gave him a concerned look.

"So, you're moving to the woods to become a monk."

"No. I'm comfortable with my views on spirituality and religion. But Thoreau's main point is still valid. It's too easy to focus on work to the exclusion of everything else," Grissom said, pausing to give her an intense look. "Or everyone else."

Sara paused in mid-bite and blinked in confusion. Quickly chewing and swallowing, she leaned closer to him. "Something happened. What's wrong?"

Grissom kept his eyes trained on the cutting board as he vigorously mutilated the vegetables there. He enjoyed their talk, but switching to his suspension meant a change in the mood. He wanted to avoid that, but he wasn't going to lie to her.

"I was suspended today."

"What?" Sara exclaimed loudly. "Why?"

"Insubordination."

"You?"

Grissom gave her a half-hearted shrug. "I got angry with Burdick."

Sara's eyes narrowed as she studied him. "What happened? Something made you lose your temper."

"It's not important."

"The hell it isn't!" Sara waited until he met her gaze. "Double standard much?"

"It's not that," Grissom said softly. Returning his attention to the cutting board, he hesitated to explain what had happened. It was futile; she'd learn the truth eventually, but he was unwilling to address that subject with her yet. "It's complicated."

"It's Ecklie, isn't it? That bastard is still trying to screw you over. Damn him!" she swore angrily. "When I get…"

"Don't go near him!" Grissom barked, causing her to lean back in surprise. He calmed himself and gave her a gentle look. "He's still angry with you over your insubordination. Don't push him. I can't protect you now."

"You shouldn't have done that. It wasn't worth the risk. I know what the job means to you."

"They weren't going to fire me. At least not then."

"Are you serious?" she asked softly. "It can't be that bad."

"If Catherine's right, it is. Burdick needs a scapegoat, and I'm a likely sacrifice," he replied.

"That's not right. What grounds does he have?"

"Sara, please. Drop it," Grissom urged quietly. "I don't want you to risk your career over this."

"Why not? It's just a damned job."

Sara rolled her eyes at his baffled look as she walked around the breakfast bar to stand near him. "Don't get me wrong. I like the job. I appreciate that you brought me here. But it's not who I am. You … people are more important, Grissom."

He gazed at her gratefully. Sara was a seed-planter. She blew in with her observations and wisdom, and left tiny seeds of insight. Judgment and reproach were too heavy to be carried with her, her insinuations so light that he didn't feel beaten down when she laid them on his shoulders. His own conscience supplied that weight, but he needed time before he tried to disburse that burden.

"Catherine will be working with night shift," he said, bringing the conversation back to work.

"Great."

"Is there a problem? I know Catherine isn't always friendly," he began delicately.

Sara waved away his concerns. "I don't care about that. It's bad enough we're short-handed, but she's not up to speed on the case. And our possible suspect is dead. Brian Wilcox worked with the Kenyons. Prior record, his prints were in the car, and he freaked when I showed him those papers. Brass called me earlier. They found his body in the desert."

"At least she's been working on it. Swing shift's been covering the leads. I wish I had more to tell you. I didn't get very far with my investigation into Malco's murder."

"That's okay," she said softly.

"I'd offer to help, but Catherine thinks that's a bad idea. I'm supposed to be a good boy, and avoid anything work related."

"Doesn't this piss you off?"

Grissom nodded as he moved his vegetables to a sauté pan. He kept a few strips on the board, offering them to Sara. "Extremely."

"Really? Can't tell by looking at you," she said. "You like to maintain control, don't you? Even now. This has to be eating at you. Maybe you should let some of it out."

"That's not a good idea," he said pointedly. "You wouldn't want to see that. Trust me."

"I do."

Grissom froze as she slid her hand into his. The gesture caught him off guard, but he rapidly returned the pressure. The comfort he derived from her surprised him, but nearly as much as the realization that he needed her, and that that didn't scare him.

"There are some things we need to talk about," he began cautiously. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about all of them now, but I want you to know this isn't your fault. Don't think that for a minute."

"We don't have to talk about this now."

"I do. I know you think I see you differently now. I do, but not in the way you think. I didn't question your objectivity in this case. I just disagreed. There wasn't any evidence to support your suspicion. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the time to find it, but it's not your fault."

"Thanks, Grissom. That means a lot coming from you."

"It's not much. You deserve more," he said, watching her intensely.

Sara's eyes dropped to their joined hands. His thumb moved in slow circles over her knuckles. She half-expected him to pull his hand away when she had reached out to him; he wasn't big on physical contact. But his current actions and words both served to confuse her.

"I want to give you more."

"Okay," she said, stepping away quickly when he stepped closer. "I think, uhm. You know, I'm not sure what to think, but you're dealing with a lot right now."

"Don't you think I'm too old to be having a mid-life crisis?" he asked, reaching for her hand again.

"No!" Sara shook her head. "I don't think of you as old. Look, I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?" He moved his free hand to her shoulder, wincing when she tensed at the contact. Had he misread the situation completely? She wasn't angry, just very sad. "Talk to me. I thought this is what you wanted."

"It is," she whispered hoarsely. "But not like this."

"What's wrong? Now's the perfect time."

"God," she said, pulling away from him and walking across his kitchen. "No, it's not. It couldn't be worse. I want to help you. Believe me, but …"

"What?" Grissom repeated, carefully closing the distance to her.

"I'm not the greatest catch out there, but I have some pride."

"I don't understand."

Sara swallowed deeply, stepping away again when he got too close. She didn't want to hurt him, but this was wrong. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, crossing her arms over her midsection protectively. "I can't be something you settled for."

"That's ... why would you think something like that?"

"I know what you said to Lurie. I know this," she said, her hand indicating the two of them, "wasn't something you thought was worth the risk. I'm not a consolation prize, Grissom. I can't do that, and that's not something we can make work."

He stood silently, his mouth agape as she moved towards his front door. She was talking again, apologizing profusely, but the words didn't register. They were on one road, coming toward one another, and he had always expected a head-on collision. Their relationship was an eventuality, and he knew sooner or later that they would crash into one another; it was only a matter of when and where, and if they would survive. He never expected that when he got close enough, she would simply pass him by.

"Sara, please. Wait," Grissom called out, but she was already out the door, out of his grasp, and he, it seemed, was apparently out of chances.

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Thanks to Marlou for the beta. And thanks to everyone who nominated and voted for my stories at both the CSI Fanfiction 2005 Awards and the Crimmy Awards.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Same as before…

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**Chapter 13 **

After thanking Archie, Sara left the A/V lab and headed towards the break room. She kept her eyes focused on the open folder in her hands, trying to keep her mind on the puzzle before her. Normally, work was a sanctuary from personal turmoil, but Grissom left her totally confused. Unable and unwilling to think about what had happened, she read over her notes again, desperately looking for a clue to Rachel's disappearance.

She fought down her emotions, and to the casual observer, she appeared totally lost in work.

But Catherine wasn't watching her casually. She noted the tension in Sara's posture, the tightness in her expression. Her concentration on the folder was too forced to be natural. Something – or someone – had her on edge, and Catherine's eyebrow rose knowingly.

Despite Grissom's protestations to the contrary, she didn't put it past Sara to screw him over after the promotion fiasco. She obviously wanted it, or she wouldn't have applied. He'd personally invited her to Vegas; she probably thought that gave her an edge. Of course she'd be upset when she didn't get the recommendation. Catherine knew how she'd feel if it had been her in that situation.

"Hey," Sara said distractedly as she passed in the hallway.

"I'm working the case now. Grissom's…off," Catherine replied with a calculated casualness as she walked beside her.

"Yeah, I know."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Sara glanced up, her brow wrinkling in confusion at her colleague's tone. It sounded accusatory, and the look directed her way confirmed that. She didn't know what to make of it, and was too confounded by earlier events to realize what was going on.

"He told me when I swung by his place…"

"You went to his home?" Catherine hissed, dragging her into an office. Sara started to protest, but the sight of Ecklie there – at that time of night – surprised her. "Just what kind of game are you playing? It's bad enough you got Gil suspended, but are you trying to get him fired?"

Sara's head swung between the two of them as she tried to make sense of the words. How was it her fault? And why did both of them seem to believe it?

"Cath, I have no idea what you're talking about. Grissom said he was suspended for insubordination."

"Because he's under investigation for sexual harassment – of you."

"What?" Her question was barely audible, but the shock and disbelief were clear. That quickly faded to dangerous anger. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You really don't know," Ecklie noted, flinching when she turned to him. He held his hands out in a peace offering. "Do you know Monique Myers?"

"Just by name."

"She opened an investigation into the department's handling of the Mathers's case. She questioned Grissom about the recommendation for the lead CSI, heavily implying that there was a sexual undertone involved. And that influenced his decision to pull you from this case."

"Explain that," Sara insisted, her breath coming in short, angry pants.

"She mentioned your better education, commendations, questioned if the two of you had a past…"

"Who the hell gave her access to my personnel records? Those are private." Sara's mind raced at the implications, but she ignored the last comment about a prior relationship.

"Yeah, that's what threw us," Catherine said, giving a half-hearted shrug as an apology. It was clear Sara didn't know about any of this. She never was a good liar.

She ignored the gesture and started to storm out of the room. "I'll settle this…"

"No!" both of the others yelled, causing her to pause briefly.

"We think Myers had an earlier encounter with Grissom and/or Burdick, and that she's using this to get back at them," Ecklie explained. "I'm checking that out myself. This is a very delicate situation. Nothing permanent is on his record yet. I don't have to explain to you what it will mean if it does get there."

"No," Sara whispered, closing her eyes to fight back the moisture. She knew exactly what would happen to Grissom and his reputation. She also knew what that meant to him. His career really was over if that happened. No wonder he was so lost earlier.

Why hadn't he told her the truth? He had to know she would find out. One thought came to mind, and it made her blood run cold – he feared she'd believe the charge. But he still made his move, even fearing her rejection.

And she had rejected him, but for different reasons. It was too abrupt. After years of ignoring their attraction, he suddenly wanted to get involved. His job was too important for him to risk a relationship, but that was now in jeopardy. Of course she felt he was settling on her. But his expression after she said that – there was no disguising that pain.

The whole point of her visit was to make sure she hadn't hurt him earlier, but she ended up wounding him even more. She never intended that; she'd never hurt him on purpose. Even the accidental pain cut at her deeply.

"Hey, are you okay?" Catherine asked with obvious concern.

Sara let out a grunt. "No."

"Can you work tonight?" After she nodded, Ecklie continued. "Good. I'll deal with Myers. The rest of you handle this case. The sooner it's solved, the better it'll be for everyone. The Kenyons only filed their initial complaint to get more attention. If we find the girl, maybe they'll drop it all. Are we sure she didn't run away again?"

"I've checked her records. She hasn't used her cell or credit cards, or taken any money from her bank account."

"Her car was found wrecked and soaked in blood," Catherine said. "It's possible someone stole it and used it for a joyride, but I don't think so."

"No, it doesn't sound like it," he agreed. "Look, don't worry about Grissom. Worst case scenario – he's charged. If you testify that it's bogus, it'll get thrown out of court."

"He's not going to be charged. I won't let them," Sara vowed.

"Don't cause any trouble," he said firmly.

"I am _not_ going to let them destroy Grissom. Not through me."

Ecklie rubbed his temple as she stalked out of the office. Letting out a sigh, he turned to Catherine. "Just what is their relationship?"

"Hell if I know," she exclaimed on her way to follow her.

Sara sat silently at the table, clearly coming to terms with what happened. She didn't ask any more questions, but poured them both a cup of coffee. In a few moments, Greg and Warrick joined them in the break room, and Catherine asked for updates.

"Shouldn't we wait for Grissom?" Greg asked. Both men noticed the flash of anger in Sara's eyes, but she didn't say a thing.

"He's suspended," Catherine said, holding up her hand to keep them quiet. "He blew up at Burdick earlier today. I don't know when he'll be back. Greg, what's up with the evidence from Mathers's car?"

"There was a lot of contamination from the oil and stuff in the shop. Hodges hasn't found anything useful. The blood samples are in DNA."

"Still?"

"Hey, it's not the best stuff to get DNA from to begin with, and this had been sitting in a hot car for days. Even I couldn't do it faster."

"Okay, Mr. Modest. Warrick, what did you find out?"

"Wilcox was shot three times in the skull from close range. Doc pulled some bullet fragments out. Bobby's going over it now. The killer dumped the body in the desert. And he's not dumb. He used something to brush away his footprints. I lifted a few things from the body. Trace has them now."

"Nick went to Wilcox's house to process it, but someone torched it," Catherine said. "He's still there, but he said not to expect much."

"Well, I rounded up his garbage earlier," Greg said. "Lots of it, including bloody clothing. I already sent samples to DNA. There were lots of notebooks, too."

"Notebooks? This guy never hear of computers?" Warrick mused.

"According to his record, he deleted files on his computer relating to his embezzlement. He didn't know that didn't destroy the files, and it was used against him during his trial," Sara pointed out.

"Which explains why he wrote all this stuff down. One listed all of the Kenyon's personal assets. Another listed all the company's equipment, what it was worth, stuff like that," Greg said. "Maybe he was planning another embezzlement, and Rachel found out about it."

"She'd have told her parents," Sara said, shaking her head. "He was figuring out what their net worth was. How much they'd be able to pay in a ransom. He knew the Kenyons would pay anything to get her back."

"But something went wrong," Catherine said.

"Rachel was supposed to go to one of the construction sites that night, but she never showed up. The library can't verify that she was there, but I found fibers in a crack on the desk. One set is consistent with what she was wearing that day. The other is a heavyweight blue cotton."

"Which is what I found in his trash covered with blood," Greg said. "I'll get a comparison done on them."

"Rachel's study cubicle is in a pretty isolated corner of the library, and there's a service entrance nearby," Sara added. "Wilcox went to school there. He might know about it."

Catherine nodded slowly. "He planned to get her that night on the way to the construction site. She never showed up. He knew she had finals coming up, and that she spent a lot of time at the library. He goes there. Maybe he tells her that something is wrong, maybe with her foster parents. Offers to drive her there, but she wants to call. He forces her outside, fibers from their clothing gets trapped on the desk."

"No one heard that in the library?" Greg asked skeptically.

"Could've had a gun. Told her to keep quiet," Warrick said.

"Okay, but then what? He didn't walk to the library, and her car's totaled."

"And someone killed him. I'm guessing it was his partner. He didn't want to share, or he blamed Wilcox for screwing it up."

"Or it was Daddy Dearest," Brass said as he walked into the room. "You couldn't wait for me to show up? How's this for curious? I talked to the Kenyons today about Wilcox. The missus says she wished they never hired him. Hubby promises to take care of it, and the guy shows up dead that afternoon."

"Oops," Catherine replied with a cat-like grin.

"But they have an alibi, and it seems tight. If he's responsible, he didn't kill Wilcox himself."

"Rachel's still missing. They wouldn't kill the one person who knows what happened to her. That doesn't make any sense," Sara said.

"Since when are people sensible? Or Rachel's dead."

"Did you guys have any luck with the leads from the hotline?" she asked Warrick. Brass's comment disturbed her. Logically, the odds of finding Rachel still alive dropped every day, but she held out hope.

"Not really. Most of them were bogus, and the ones that did see Rachel saw her earlier in the day, on campus, stuff like that."

"Anything else?" Catherine asked, looking around the table.

"Yeah. Sara, that weird writing you asked me to look for. I think this counts," Greg said, passing photocopies around the table. "There were a bunch of papers with stuff like that on them."

"What the hell is that?" Catherine demanded. The page held nine blocks of letters. All of the blocks had twelve letters, except the last, which only had seven. It was gibberish; they didn't form any words.

"I found some of these earlier at the construction site," Sara answered, showing her a copy of the alphabetic grid. "If it's what I think it is, it's a way of encoding messages."

"This guy really had a thing against computers," Warrick sighed. "It's easy to encrypt things that way. Why go to this trouble?"

Greg shrugged. "Tracks. If he e-mailed a copy to his partner, it'd leave a trail, even if you can't read the message. And I think a jury might be suspicious if he refused to tell them what it meant."

"Or he wanted to make sure no one could decipher it," Sara went on. "I talked to Archie. A lot of the encryption software out there use key escrows. If the software's used in an illegal activity, the FBI can get the key from the company to decode the message."

"Even if they don't, there's no saying how safe the message will be before the statute of limitations wears out. Some of the old codes can be broken by a cheap computer now, and the machines keep getting stronger," Brass said. He rolled his shoulders at the heads turned his way. "What? Aren't I allowed to know stuff? One of the old casinos lost a lot of money that way a few years back."

"Keep your shirt on. Sara, can you decode this?" Catherine asked.

"I can try," she answered, not bothering to hide her doubt. "If all the information I need is in those notebooks."

"Try. We need to know who his partner is. Warrick, go help Nicky. Greg, finish going through the trash, and check those fibers Sara found. I'll be with Doc if anyone needs anything."

The group broke up, and Sara collected the assorted writings from Greg. Sitting alone in the Layout Room, she methodically sorted through the material, making neat piles around her. The work helped her ignore her growing internal conflict, and she focused all her mental energy on it. With the new evidence, hope sparked that they'd be able to find the missing college student.

When her stomach began to growl, she sat back slowly and cautiously stretched her muscles. Looking at her watch, she was surprised to find it was almost time for shift to end. She'd worked non-stop all night, but had made little progress.

Sara spent the rest of shift copying notes down and repacking her evidence before heading out. She'd spend more time on the mysterious puzzle after breakfast, but first she had to do something. Driving away from the lab, she didn't think about her plans, fearing she'd talk herself out of it.

She walked up to the door, knocking firmly before her courage gave out. When Grissom answered, her initial thoughts of a calm conversation faded. He wouldn't look at her.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me what happened?" she demanded. "Did you really think I'd believe it was true?"

To her surprise, Grissom only shrugged, but he turned around and went back into his townhouse. Uncertain if that was an invitation to follow, she hesitated for a minute, but then she saw him placing the newspaper-wrapped package in his hands into box.

Half in a daze, she followed him in, noting his almost completely bare walls as he took down another butterfly display and carefully wrap it in paper before adding it to the box.

"You're packing," she said hoarsely.

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 14

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary: **When a girl goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters between Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N: **Thanks to Marlou and mystery for looking this over. I'm keeping the mistakes for myself.  
**Disclaimer:** Same old, same old.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 14 **

"You're packing," Sara said, her voice tight as she reined in conflicting emotions. Grissom had yet to talk to her, had barely acknowledged her presence as he continued to put away his butterfly collection. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but obviously she had. Bad enough that he was retreating physically as well as emotionally.

Grissom continued to work in silence, pausing occasionally, as if lost in thought. "Why?" she demanded, but he only stared at a carefully wrapped display in his hands.

"Damn you, Grissom!" she swore, turning sharply around and heading to his door. Sara focused on her anger. She could use her temper, let the fire fuel her drive. It was safer than her other emotions, the pain gnawing at her subconscious, the hidden doubts resurfacing.

"Just once, I wish you'd let me answer before you ran away."

It was less his words than the way he spoke that convinced her to pause at his door. Leaning against it, she mentally counted to ten, trying to calm herself. He was in pain; she knew the accusations hurt him, even if they were baseless. Her rejection hadn't helped.

She did love him, probably more than was healthy. More than once she tried to move on, but had never been able to completely sever the invisible ties that trapped them both in their non-relationship. While she wanted to be with him, distrust made her wary. What had he expected her reaction was going to be? He'd avoided _this_ for years, actively distanced himself from her, but she was supposed to fall into his arms the moment he decided it was time?

Turning around, she cocked her head in thought. He kept his eyes glued to a package in his hand. Was this how he handled problems? He didn't get his way, so he packed up and left? What kind of future was that?

"Me? You're the one running away."

Grissom finally faced her, and his expression caused Sara to inhale deeply. He seldom allowed her to see what he was feeling, but he did so now. The openness surprised her as much as the intensity. His affection changed to confusion at her anger, finally morphing to clarity.

"I'm not leaving," he said, shifting the package in his hands. "Not … yet. It hasn't reached that point."

Sara watched him curiously. "Then why are you packing?"

"I've decided it's time to make some changes," he said. Despite the distracted tone, his words carried a deeper implication, and she crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow as she waited for an explanation. He hesitated momentarily; while it seemed like he was fighting some internal battle, his explanation was mundane. "I'm putting them away. I don't want to get spackle or paint on them."

"You're painting." Sara's mouth dropped in disbelief. "You're _redecorating_. Now?"

"Why not? I have the time to kill," Grissom answered, pausing thoughtfully. With a humorless smirk, he set away the display. "'As if you can kill Time without injuring Eternity.'"

"Will you stop quoting Thoreau?"

He shrugged as he began wrapping another glass case. "It seemed apropos."

Sara rolled her eyes at him, moving deeper into his townhouse. He wasn't leaving, but something was up. Thoughts that he was having a midlife crisis floated uneasily in her mind. If nothing else, he didn't understand the severity of the situation, or he was in denial. "You need to talk to an attorney."

"It's not necessary."

"The hell it isn't!"

The heat of her voice caused him to smile slightly before he looked away, prompting a confused expression from Sara. There was so much passion hidden inside of her. Sadly, he realized that he lost years of channeling that intensity in more personal directions.

"No, it's not," he said, gathering his resolve. This was the right thing to do. Not just for himself – he owed it to Sara, no matter the outcome. "I'm going to resign."

"Why?"

"I think the reason should be clear," Grissom said, moving the partially filled box to his breakfast counter. Resting his hands on the back of a chair, he gripped it tightly. After Sara left the night before, it took little time to reach his decision. But actually saying it out loud was more painful than he anticipated.

Tension drained from his body when she laid her hands on his shoulders, and when he faced her, he felt assured that his decision was the right one.

"No. There's no need to do that. Look, Myers is reading this whole thing wrong. Maybe she's out to get you or Burdick. Ecklie's working that angle," Sara said, stopping as she bobbed her head. "Okay. That's probably not inspiring."

"Conrad and I have a mutual dislike for each other, but his primary concern has always been with the lab. He won't allow anything to hurt its reputation, even if it meant getting rid of me."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"To save my reputation. Even Catherine questions whether I can save my job at this point. If I leave, the investigation goes away, too. My reputation remains intact. If I stay, even if they disprove the accusation…"

"When," she said hotly.

He smiled ruefully. "The suspicion is still there. There will always be those who'll wonder how much truth there was to it. This is better."

"No, it's not! I am not going to let them do this do you, Grissom. I'll fight…"

"No!" Both of them seemed shocked by the forcefulness of his command. "You are not going to throw your career away over this. Do you understand me?"

Sara didn't back down. "Hey, you're the one quitting. You can't tell me what to do. You won't be my boss any more."

"I'm still your friend. You do know that, don't you?"

Her eyes dropped to his hand resting tentatively on her forearm. He was nervous; no, it went beyond that. This incident had shaken him. How bad were things if he was turning to her for support?

"You have a funny way of showing it," she sighed, most of her anger draining away. She'd always be there for him, whether he knew it or not. "Thanks for the warning. About what really happened. It's not fun being the bad guy."

"Why would anyone blame you? Oh."

"You should have told me."

Her words were spoken softly, almost timidly, but they both knew she meant more than the reason for his suspension. They stared at each other silently, saying more with their eyes than they'd ever be able to vocalize. Finally, Grissom's head lowered.

"I … couldn't."

Sara rested her hand over his for a moment before walking away. Running her fingers through her hair, she tried to clear her head. He was confusing her – again – and she wanted to stay focused on something she understood. "You're not quitting."

"Resigning," he corrected softly.

"Running away."

He shook his head patiently. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing left to lose, but everything left to gain. Everything that he'd put off for too long. "I think that's the wrong way to look at it. It's not what I'm leaving, it's what I'm moving towards."

"Semantics. It's the same thing."

"No. It's a choice. One that I'm making willingly, Sara," Grissom said tenderly, stepping towards her with a decisive stride. Reaching up, he cupped her cheek and gazed at her pointedly. "It's not something that I'm settling for. It's not a consolation prize."

Recognizing her earlier words, Sara's mouth went dry, and she swallowed painfully as he moved his thumb against her skin. He was picking her over his career? She never thought he had to choose one of them, and she never wanted him to sacrifice anything for her sake. The enormity of his action was incomprehensible, but his caress reached her at a more basic level.

Grissom watched her intimately. He wanted to draw Sara closer, to feel her body against his, but he was afraid to rush her. She doubted his intentions; he knew he had to convince her of his sincerity. She allowed his touch, but he didn't know if it was welcomed. The uncertainty troubled him. He'd made the decision to give up the one life he'd always known for the life he always wanted. As right as that seemed, he was a stranger in this new world. It was beautiful, but he feared a misstep that would send them both tumbling into an emotional abyss. He'd sink too far; he'd never escape again.

His other hand reached upward to her face. He kept his movements slow, not wanting to startle her, and giving her the chance to object. Sara's eyes followed his progress, closing when he eventually buried his fingers in her hair. He let out a soft groan, bending to rest his forehead against hers.

Both of them jumped when her cell phone rang. Sara recovered first, holding out her hand as she stepped away. "Wait. Just… just hold that for a minute," she said before answering the call.

A sly smile formed as he cocked his head to the side. He took her outstretched hand and held it tightly, tugging softly as he walked away. She stared at him with a baffled expression, but made no move to object as he led her into his kitchen. Picking up the coffee pot, he sniffed the contents, scowling as he poured it out.

"Wait, I'm sorry. What did you say?" she said, giving her head a shake and pulling her hand free. "Sorry. I was, uh, distracted."

Grissom gave her a half-shrug as he went about making fresh coffee, but it wasn't really apologetic. He was too content to regret that he'd distracted her. She hadn't returned the gesture, but she hadn't objected. It wasn't as much as he wanted, but enough to reassure him.

When Sara hung up, she leaned against his counter, wrapping her arms around her midsection tightly. She avoided meeting his gaze. He didn't push, sensing that maybe she needed time or space. Personal interactions weren't his strong suit, and Grissom figured it was better to err on the side of caution for now.

"A break in the case?" he asked, keeping the conversation to a safe topic.

"Yeah," she answered. "That was Bobby. Looks like the same gun was used to kill both Malco and Wilcox."

Grissom's eyebrow went up as he nodded. It seemed odd that the dead cement truck driver received four phone calls from the pay phone outside the auto shop where Rachel Mathers's car had been found. "So, the cases are related. Have you had a chance to go over the Malco file yet?"

"No. I, uh, I need to go."

"Sit down. I'll bring you up to speed on it," Grissom directed.

"No!" Sara said. Her earlier indecision vanished as she pushed off the counter and marched towards him. "Cath told you not to work this case. She's right. You need to keep a low profile. I shouldn't even be here."

"You're always welcomed."

She shook her head. "That's not the point. You're under investigation for … harassment," she said, spitting out the word. "My being here? Not helping. It's not safe."

"And I told you not to worry about it."

"How can I not worry about it? They're using me to hurt you! We're trying to save your career."

"The one I'm resigning," he said with a huff.

"No, you're not."

Deciding not to push that subject either, he dropped some bread into the toaster. "Look, you need the help. I'm not doubting your abilities," he added quickly. "But nightshift is a little short-handed right now, and I already know the Malco case."

"Swing shift is helping."

"They're still working their own cases, too. Sofia is gone, and that leaves just Greg to help you fulltime."

"Don't you think he can do the job?"

"If I thought that, he'd still be in DNA, but he's green. And you have to wonder about someone who sticks his fingers into light sockets," Grissom said as he escorted a confused looking Sara to his dining room table. "You don't think he does that to his hair on purpose, do you?"

She did a rapid double take, catching his wink before he vanished into the kitchen. When he returned with plates and buttered toast, she watched him guardedly as he retrieved his briefcase.

"I don't have a lot to tell you," he began, quickly filling her in on the little he'd learned: there was nothing to link Malco to either the Kenyons or the auto shop owner; in fact, there were no records of him at all. Even his license was a fake.

"So we know nothing about him."

"Not true," Grissom said. "Sometimes it's about what's missing."

"His hands. The killer didn't want us to be able to fingerprint him. Which implies his prints are on file somewhere."

"And that will lead us back to the killer."

"Mia ran his DNA through CODIS. There's no match," Sara said. "If he was arrested, it was before they started DNA testing, or somewhere where it's not done. I'll see if we can find a link between Malco and Wilcox. What about Dvorak?"

"His record is clean. He's even accepted responsibility for what happened, telling the DA not to charge his employees. They didn't know the car wasn't a legitimate wreck."

"Or so he thinks. The calls to Malco on the day he was killed came from Dvorak's shop."

"Did Brass finish investigating all his employees?" Grissom asked.

"I don't know. I'll have to ask him."

"Good. It's possible it was someone else. The pay phone is public. Did you ever figure out that puzzle?"

Sara closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh. A desire to protect Grissom battled with the need for his help with the case. When the whiff of coffee passed under her nose, she looked up to find Grissom standing next to her chair.

"No one knows you're here, do they? Let me help, Sara. Finding Rachel is more important than worrying about Myers. Tell me about the code. Did you figure it out?"

"In a sense. It's called a one-time pad. It's a way of coding messages."

"Did you break it yet?"

"I'm not going to."

"I have faith in you," Grissom said with pride.

Sara blushed under the praise, but shrugged it off. "Thanks, but I can't work miracles. It's an old way of encrypting messages, but it has the distinction of being the only method that's mathematically impossible to crack."

"What do you mean?"

Sara pulled out the copy of the grid from a folder, showing him how the rows and columns were labeled alphabetically. "Each row of the grid contains all of the letters of the alphabet, but they're arranged in a random order. None of the rows repeat the same pattern."

"Okay."

"You make a bunch of these pages, each of them different to make your pad. Then you make sure the person who gets the message has an identical copy. You also need a key phrase that both of you know," Sara explained, finding a copy of one of the coded messages Greg had found in the trash.

"It's in groups of twelve letters," Grissom noted.

"Right. That means the key phrase had twelve letters in it, not counting spaces. You get rid of all the spaces in the message and in the key phrase."

"All right. So both are just a long string of letters."

"Exactly. Take the first twelve letters in the original message and line them up under the twelve letters of the key phrase. You take the first letter of the message you want to code and go to that column," she said, pointing the grid. "Then go take the first letter from the key phrase and go to that row. The letter in that grid cell is the first letter in your coded message. Do that with each of the twelve letters. When you're done, toss the first page from your pad, move to the next one, and repeat with the next twelve letters in the original message."

"This seems very complicated."

"It is. And it's easy to screw up. But you end up with a message that's completely random. It follows no pattern at all. That's why there's no way to break it."

He scowled as he looked over her example. "You could try all the possible permutations of letters. How many are there?"

"For a block of twelve letters? Just a few," she said, flashing him a toothy grin.

"Why do I get the feeling you're going to tell me my idea isn't feasible?"

"Put it this way. If everyone in the lab – and that includes Judy and the janitors – worked on this nonstop, looking at one possible combination per second, it would take over thirty million years to try every possible way. And that's just for one of the blocks."

"I don't think Conrad would approve the overtime for that," he said dryly. "And relax. I'm cracking jokes, not cracking up."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Sara shifted the paper between her hands, focusing on it as her mind tried to come to grips with Grissom's change in attitude. It was something she always wanted, and she still did. But the abruptness of it worried her. He was under stress, no matter how much he downplayed it. She didn't want to add to his pain, and that included rushing into something that he'd regret later.

But she also wanted to comfort him, to take him into her arms and help ease his burden. Her motives weren't completely altruistic; she'd receive as much from their relationship as she gave. Conflicted and unsure, she pushed down those thoughts.

"And with that many combinations, even a computer would take too long to try them all," she added, her tone betraying her unease. "And the blocks of letters can contain a bunch of short words, or no whole words at all. It's not really something you can have a computer scan easily."

"What else do you have?" Grissom asked, trying to keep any trace of sadness from his voice. She still needed assurance, but he wasn't sure how to give it to her. How long did it take to counter years of forced indifference?

They reviewed the evidence from the beginning, going over all of it in an attempt to glean any new information. It wasn't until Sara unsuccessfully stifled a yawn that Grissom called an end to their work.

"I want you in bed," he said, his lips twitching slightly at her wide-eyed stare. "I'll drive you home if you want."

"I'm fine," Sara replied with a trace of annoyance as she gathered her things.

"Yes, you are."

She shot him a glare over her shoulder, but it didn't last long. His change in attitude still left her bewildered, but it also moved her, awakening dreams she had tried to outgrow. Caution ruled her hopes; despite Grissom's protests, she wasn't going to let anyone use her to attack him. He wasn't going to lose his job over this, and she'd wait to see if he was still interested when it was resolved.

"Breakfast again tomorrow?" he asked, walking with her to the door. He leaned his arm against the frame, looking at her hopefully. "I'll have something better than toast."

Sara shifted apprehensively under his gaze. Spending the time alone together – even work-related – had been nice. She wanted more, but she didn't want to do anything to jeopardize recovering his career.

"Maybe," she said, giving him a half-smile before escaping.

* * *

Yawning deeply, Sara reclined in the car's seat, stretching her arms as her mind pondered the latest mystery before her. Something was off, but she couldn't figure out what. That missing clue irritated her. 

"Catching a nap on me?"

"Hey, Cath," she answered, nodding towards the front seat of the car. "Mia got the results back. That's Malco's blood up there. I've been over this car three times. There's no evidence that anyone else was in it or the trunk when it wrecked."

"So, Malco was the only one in it when it crashed. Maybe he was going to ditch the car after they abducted Rachel, and he got in an accident."

"I guess so. It would explain the blood evidence. And maybe why they killed him."

"What do you mean?" Catherine asked, leaning into the back window of the car.

"Someone involved in this case knew what they were doing. Where to dump the car, to wipe out the prints, to use an obscure encryption method. He'd know that if the car was ever found, the blood evidence would nail Malco."

"He was a threat at that point."

"And he'd lead us to the third guy. He wanted to make sure we didn't ID Malco, find out his real name. If we do, we'll find the guy that killed them."

"Nick found this in Wilcox's house," Catherine said, holding out a badly burnt passport. "The name on it is a Thomas Young."

"Can you make out the picture? It might be a fake one for Wilcox."

"No, Ronnie said it was too far gone to recover. He's trying to see if he can recover the signature to compare it to Wilcox's writing. You think he was going to flee the country?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, climbing out of the car. "Those notebooks Greg found? One of them listed six foreign bank accounts."

"Why? Six perps?"

"Maybe not. Maybe it's a way to cover their tracks. Even Swiss banks will give up account information if given proof that they were used in a crime, but it takes time. You can transfer funds electronically in seconds."

"I get it. The Kenyons wire the ransom money to the first account. After a couple days, or weeks, we get that information, but find out the money was transferred to another account. By the time we tracked it through all six accounts, a year or more would have passed."

"And the kidnappers had plenty of time to withdraw the money and disappear."

"Good work," she said honestly.

"Thanks," Sara replied, not adding that she and Grissom had discussed this in detail earlier. Yawning again, she ignored the amused chuckle from her coworker. "I'm thinking our mystery guy killed Wilcox 'cause he panicked after Brass and I talked to him about those codes."

"Already ahead of you. Brass is trying to track down anyone Wilcox talked to after you spooked him."

"Did you make any progress with Myers?"

"I'm on my way to see Ecklie," Catherine said. "I've got to drop Lindsey off at school first. You get some sleep," she directed as Sara yawned again.

"Right," she muttered to herself, stripping out of her stained coveralls when she reached the locker room. Thoughts of Grissom and his interest kept her awake all day. Unable to rest, she had headed to the lab, forcing herself to concentrate on the case.

Standing under the shower, she let the water run over her as she finally let her mind wander. He really had picked her over his career. Either he was serious or delusional, and Sara critically debated which was more accurate.

She didn't want him to give up work. It meant so much to him, and he excelled as a criminalist. In the past, he'd been leery of having a relationship with an insubordinate, but if he were willing to leave it behind for her, would he be willing to try for both? They were both private by nature; discretion was practically defined by their personalities.

After showering and dressing, she noticed the text message from Grissom. "Breakfast?" Heading into the parking lot, she debated what to do. She didn't know how Myers got her information, and she worried about being spotted at his townhouse.

Sara stopped short, swearing silently. Grissom's car was parked next to hers, and he was leaning against it, working a crossword puzzle. So much for discretion.

"What's a seven-letter word for 'bungler', middle letter is an 's'?"

"Grissom!"

"That fits, but I don't think that's right," he said, putting away his puzzle to open the passenger side door of his car.

Sara scanned the parking lot anxiously, trying to determine if they were being watched. "Are you insane?"

"Just hungry."

Getting into the driver's seat, Grissom forced a calm smile as she continued to stare at him incredulously. He knew he was walking a fine line between showing interest and pushing her; worse, he had no idea where that line existed.

"Grissom," she sighed as he pulled away. "This wasn't a smart idea."

"I didn't go into the lab."

"The straw hat isn't exactly a clever disguise. Anyone could have seen us out there."

"So? I'm not ashamed to be seen with you."

Sara gave him an affectionate smirk. "I'm not ashamed of you. But Myers misconstrued everything else. Going out with the woman you're accused of harassing? Even you have to know that looks bad."

"There's only one other opinion that I'm concerned about," he said, shooting her a pointed look. "What the sheriff or anyone else thinks is irrelevant to me."

"It's not to me."

"I don't see how this investigation can hurt you. I'm the one they're going after."

"You don't get it," she said, twisting in her seat to watch him. "It matters to me. I don't want to see you hurt."

"Then have breakfast with me. I've been looking forward to it."

Taken aback by the earnestness of his plea, she nodded her agreement as she settled into the seat. If nothing else, she had to convince him not to show up at the lab. When he pulled into the parking lot across the street from the diner, she gave him a worried look.

"Shift ended almost two hours ago. If anyone from the lab was going to show up, they did so earlier. It'll be deserted this time of day," he explained. "Let's go."

Grissom hopped out of the car, dashing around to open her door and escort her across the street. She didn't protest, sensing his nervousness. What she didn't know was whether she was the source of his discomfort, or if he regretted his decision.

"You don't have to do this," she said softly, giving him the option to back away.

"I want to."

They remained silent as the waitress left the menus and took their drink orders. "You're uncomfortable," he observed when they were alone again.

"It's, well, damn it, Grissom. You drop this on me out of nowhere. It happened so fast."

"Not really. I've been thinking about this for a long time."

"Thanks for clueing me in," she muttered quietly, looking away as the waitress left their iced tea.

"I'm letting you know now," he said, reaching over to brush his hand against hers. When he spoke, his words came slowly. "I know you're … hesitant. What can I do to convince you?"

"Honestly? I don't know. It's … I don't get why you're so eager all of a sudden. Yeah, you say it's not, but from here? It is."

Grissom continued to rub his fingers against her hand, but he stared at the tabletop. "I couldn't see the forest for the trees?"

"I'm serious. I want this, but I know what you said. I wasn't worth the risk. And you know what's worse? You never told me. I had to overhear you tell a killer."

"You get nightmares, don't you?" he asked after a long silence.

Sara blinked at the change in subject. "Yeah, I do."

"I don't. Not usually. The last time was with The Strip Strangler case."

"Yeah, I can believe that. Having a gun pulled on you," she said, stopping at his intense stare.

"It had nothing to do with that. It was you. As his victim. Every time I went to sleep, I found your body. Always after he …," Grissom said, dropping his head. His free hand tightened into a painful fist. "It was a dream. I knew it; I knew you were safe. But they lasted for days. For the only time in my life I was afraid to sleep. Then there was Debbie Marlin. I knew she wasn't you, but …"

"Hey, don't," Sara interrupted as he struggled with the admission. "You don't have to do this."

"You wanted an answer. This is the best I can do," he said. "That case was a living nightmare. And I understood Lurie."

Sara waited as he slowly looked back up to her. "How could I tell you that? That I identified with a sadistic killer? That I understood what drove him to do it?"

"Understanding isn't the same as acting. You're not a murderer."

"No, but it," he paused, looking away again. "It scared me. I saw part of myself in Lurie. I didn't trust myself."

"If I thought you were dangerous, I wouldn't be here. Trust me. I know violence. You? Never."

Grissom smiled gratefully at her adamant statement, gently squeezing the hand she rested in his until their meals arrived. They ate in silence, both mulling over the conversation.

"Did you get any more breaks on the case?" he asked after the waitress refilled their drinks and took away the dirty plates.

"Not much," she said, explaining about the blood.

"Interesting."

"Yeah."

Grissom frowned at her tone. "What?"

"Why didn't the third guy ever ask for ransom? Something went wrong. I don't think we're going to find Rachel alive."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's okay. We all have cases that affect us. It's easy to understand why this one bothered you. Both you and Rachel had similar backgrounds, but she didn't overcome all her difficulties. It's not hard to imagine how your life could have turned out."

"Hell, Grissom, I wanted her life," Sara said, waving off his concerned look. "Not the problems with the drugs. She found a foster family that actually wanted her. They fought to keep her. She had problems, but she was always loved."

"I didn't realize it was so bad for you."

"It wasn't. It wasn't great, either. I never really connected to my foster families. And I wasn't exactly a poster child all the time."

"You told Greg there were things you regretted," Grissom said. He wanted her to feel comfortable talking to him, even if the subject matter was uncomfortable to him. Seeing her tense, he tried to lighten the mood. "Is it the tattoo? I'm not sure I like the fact Greg saw this when you were in a shower together."

"It's on my ankle," she answered distractedly. After a minute she leaned back, her head tilting to the side appraisingly. She wasn't sure how he'd react to the truth, but she wanted to know. "I'm not great about connecting to people emotionally. So, for a while, I settled for connecting physically."

"Oh," he said, shifting in his chair and darting his eyes over her shoulder. The thought bothered him deeply; not what she'd done, but that she felt the need to do it. "That's, uh, understandable."

"Look, it was mainly in college, and it wasn't that many times. It, it wasn't a great substitute."

"Is that what happened with that paramedic?" he asked, fiddling with his glass uncertainly. He hoped the answer was yes, that she hadn't been genuinely attached to the younger man. It disturbed him – but only slightly – that he had no guilt for feeling that way.

"Don't ever mention Hank to me," she said hotly.

Grissom's head snapped back at her comment, but he quickly scowled as realization dawned. "He hurt you. The damn bastard hurt you."

Sara always suspected Grissom was possessive and protective, but she swore his nostrils flared. The display unnerved her, and she moved to calm him down. "No man lays a hand on me like that. Not without getting the worst of it."

"There's more than one way to hurt someone."

"Tell me about it," she exhaled, regretting it immediately when he dropped his head sheepishly.

"I…"

"No, I'm sorry. I, it ended badly. I really don't like to talk about it. But, yeah, Hank was there, and I was lonely. Like I said, he was a poor substitute."

Grissom took a moment, but he reached across the table to take her hand. "You don't have to do that ever again."

"Oh, shit," Sara said, pulling her hand away quickly. Grissom started to question her, when she added, "Hey, Catherine."

Turning around, he found his friend walking towards them with a disbelieving glare. "Care to join us?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Are you out of your mind?" she asked immediately.

"That's what I asked him," Sara said dryly.

"I'm having breakfast with a friend. I see no harm in that."

"Gil, even you aren't this dense. This was stupid and dangerous! Burdick is furious and out for blood. I don't know what's up with Myers, but …"

"But I don't care," he injected.

"You are not resigning."

Catherine sank into the booth beside Sara, swinging her head between the two of them. Grissom was quitting? She knew he was upset, but that was the last thing she expected. And how did Sara know about it?

"Care to tell me what the hell is going on?" Catherine asked, not bothering to hide her confusion.

"I've decided to resign. Sara doesn't think it's a good idea."

"It's not! Look, I know you're angry, but that's no reason to give up," Catherine said.

"Did it ever occur to either of you that I don't want to work somewhere that would offer me up as a sacrificial lamb? I never planned to spend the rest of my career at the Vegas lab. There are other things I can do. There are other things I want to do."

She watched the intense looks being exchanged by her colleagues, and the blonde's eyes opened widely. When had this happened? No wonder Sara was so upset that someone was after Grissom. Or why he was so protective of her. Oh, if Myers or Burdick learned about this…

"I didn't see the two of you here," she said, getting up quickly. "But God only knows who has. Even if you decide to quit, don't do anything else stupid!"

Grissom watched her storm out of the dinner, turning around to smirk at Sara. "She overreacts sometimes. Do you need to go back to the lab now, or would you like to do something else?"

She stared at him, her mouth opening slightly. Giving her head a shake, she stood up quickly and headed to the door. The diner was too risky. "We are talking. Somewhere private."

The ride to his townhouse was silent, but Grissom understood she was angry. Why she felt that way eluded him. He thought things were progressing; they had talked, even if that had been uncomfortable.

Arriving at his home, he cleared away packing boxes from the breakfast counter. She declined his offer to make coffee, instead pacing around his living room with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"Cath was right. I tried to tell you."

"Sara, I'm not worried about my job. I've accepted that it's lost."

"But it's not. It's not fair."

"Very little in life is," he said, his sage tone failing to cover his pain. "Please, just drop it. It's not your concern."

"Yes, it is! How can I make you understand? They are using me to hurt you. I'd never do that, and I'll be damned if I let anyone else do it."

"I know you're not involved. I don't think anyone that really knows you will ever blame you for this. I know what I want. I've made my choice."

"That's just it. It's not a choice you have to make. There's no reason you have to pick one or the other. I've tried to tell you that before."

Grissom walked towards her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "I was serious back in the diner. I'm fed up with the political interference with work. I'm tired of having nothing else in my life. I want more."

"And you can have it!" Sara exclaimed. Dropping her shoulders in defeat, she turned away from him. "You're not listening. Cath's right. You're pissed at Burdick. It's clouding your judgment."

"Where are you going?" he asked fretfully when she walked towards his door. His stomach knotted painfully, and he followed her with a sense of dread. He accepted the loss of his career; it was painful, but it was bearable. Losing Sara, now, that was unthinkable.

"Home. Damn. Can you give me a lift back to the lab?"

"I don't want you to leave. You wanted to talk. Let's talk. Don't go."

"Grissom," she sighed. "Never mind. I'll get a cab."

"What did I do wrong?"

Sara turned to him, wincing at his suffering look. "Nothing, babe. But you're not thinking straight," she said gently before reaching for the doorknob. "Trust me. I'm trying to save the most important thing in your life."

"If that's true why are you leaving?"

His plaintive tone halted her progress. Hands on her shoulders spun her around, and Grissom pulled Sara close to his body, unwilling to risk letting her go, not when they were this close. His gaze bore into her, his need and fear evident. "If that's what you want, then don't leave."

"But…"

"But nothing. I have what I want here," he said, bending down to capture her mouth with his. Years of denied desires, of yearning, flowed through the kiss. When her arms wrapped around him, he lifted her up, carrying her back into his home.

_TBC_


	15. Chapter 15

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Wow, is anyone still reading this? If so, a big thank you and an apology for the delay. Health issues really screwed up my schedule the last few months. Next, I know I said there was only one chapter left, but there's no way I could wrap up the story that quickly and do it any justice. Thanks to csipal for looking this over; all mistakes are mine.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **Same old, same old.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Shifting his head on the pillow, Grissom stared at the ceiling distractedly as troubling thoughts prevented him from sleeping. All of his life he'd been a peculiar mix of indecision and decisiveness. He never rushed into anything; he'd mull over everything carefully, fully considering all aspects of a situation before taking action. His tendency to over-think frequently annoyed those around him, but once he'd made his decision, he stuck with it.

Even when it hurt.

His decision to avoid a relationship with Sara was the perfect example. He wanted her, but he didn't want the risks involved. So as much as his heart disagreed, he steered clear from commitment. Work allowed him some contact and control over her, but Grissom carefully – and often carelessly – pushed her away when things veered into personal involvement. By the time he began to wonder if he'd been wrong, it was too late; she'd grown tired of his behavior. While his resistance waned, his hopes of a future together started dying, but even then he had kept his distance.

So why was his choice to resign so disquieting?

Logically, it seemed the right thing to do. He'd escape with his reputation intact, with no insinuations following him. No matter how ridiculous the harassment allegation, once it became part of his record it would always be there, making people wonder what grain of truth it contained.

That was part of his problem – the charge was totally baseless. He was being used as a political scapegoat. The inherent injustice of the situation riled him, but he didn't know what else to do. How could he fight the charge without making it public? What good would it do to win vindication if he had to sacrifice his reputation in the process?

When Sara shifted uneasily, Grissom rolled to his side and gently ran a hand down her arm, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. She'd want to get back to work immediately. He knew the Mather's case was important to her, and he understood her drive, but he didn't want her to leave. It was petty and selfish – not an uncommon occurrence where she was concerned – but at the moment he didn't give a damn.

It had taken too long to reach this point. He conceded his share of responsibility for that delay, but when he needed her, Sara had been there. No recriminations, no assignment of blame. She offered her support and strength, to some extent herself, body and soul. So many years wasted, but at that moment he wanted whatever he could have, and so he reached out and took what had always been his for the taking. They'd made love fiercely, unable to contain the years of denied passion. Afterwards, she held him, quietly stroking his body until she drifted off to sleep, contently curled by his side.

Despite his restlessness, he drew comfort from watching her. Streamers of afternoon light seeped in around the blinds, highlighting her face. Sleep gave her a peaceful aura that was lacking when she was awake. It took away the tension of the case, of the personal demons that still lingered. The sight triggered a protective instinct in him. It was irrational; she wasn't helpless, and she didn't need any man to guard over her.

She didn't need him.

Grissom's features contorted slightly. He was used to being in control, of being the one that set the boundaries. But at some point their essential dynamic changed, and he wasn't exactly sure what the new parameters were. One thing was certain: he had stretched Sara's tolerance to the breaking point. He had to be careful if he wanted to keep her.

And he did. They'd crossed an emotional Rubicon, though, and there was no going back to the way things had been. No matter what happened, their lives had changed permanently. The full implications of that were slowly dawning on him, and it was exciting and overwhelming.

His gentle caresses couldn't stop whatever disturbed her sleep, and Sara woke with a sudden jerk. Sitting upright, she took a harsh breath, tensing as she quickly scanned the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Hey," he said softly, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.

Her eyes dropped to his hand before she turned to him with an incredulous look. After a beat, a bashful grin formed as she relaxed. "Oh, wow," she exhaled.

Feeling the awkwardness as well, Grissom sat up and adjusted the pillows against the headboard. Leaning back, he extended his arm in welcome, wrapping it around her shoulders when she settled against his side. A soft kiss to the top of her head followed, prompting her to snuggle closer.

"We actually, uh, did it," she said after a moment. "I guess it wasn't a dream this time."

"No, it wasn't, but I think I want to hear more about your dreams," he said with a soft chuckle.

"Not really," she answered darkly, shrugging off his concerned look before staring across the room. "Okay, how did my bra end up there?"

Recognizing the ham-handed attempt to change the subject, he fought not to scowl as a small voice in the back of his mind fought for attention. Grissom determined long ago that it couldn't work between them, that there were too many things that could go wrong. He'd spent the remaining years constantly trying to convince himself of the validity of his conclusion. Taking her as a lover wasn't something he regretted, but most of the potential obstacles he had carefully catalogued had a basis in reality, and they still existed. By itself, Sara's hesitance to open up to him wasn't catastrophic, but it didn't ease his nerves.

Deciding not to push the matter, he followed her gaze. An eyebrow went up comically at the absurd position of the undergarment. One end draped over the top of the mirror while the other end was wrapped around the shade of the nearby lamp.

"Don't you remember?" he asked, concentrating on keeping his tone light.

"I, uh, was distracted at the time."

"Pleasantly?"

"Very," she replied, snaking her arms around his body when he shifted to nuzzle her collarbone.

"Good. The next time won't be so rushed," he promised, moving his lips slowly up her neck to her mouth. He deliberately kept his motions slow and gentle in contrast to their earlier encounter, drawing as much comfort from her acceptance as he gave. Words eluded him, but he physically offered what he couldn't say.

Sara mimicked his actions, gradually relaxing under his ministrations. She let her hands leisurely trail over his body, offering her own support. After a few moments, she kissed him deeply before grasping his shoulders and firmly pushing their bodies apart.

"Next time," she sighed, resting her forehead against his. "Sorry. I have to leave. Uh, I know this sucks, but …"

"I understand. The shower is that way," he said, not bothering to hide his disappointment as he grabbed the robe from the foot of the bed. "Do you want something to eat before you go back to the lab?"

"No, thanks." Slipping into the robe, she started retrieving her clothes from across the bedroom. After finding a well-hidden sock, she looked back to the bed and tried not to grin. She was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, but he looked adorable. Grissom hadn't moved, trying to appear nonchalant with the covers carefully pooled over his lap. "Are you always this randy?"

"I think this is a direct response to you."

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she didn't laugh. Moving to his side of the bed, she sat down and took his hand. "Hey, don't worry. They'll be plenty of next times later. I promise."

After she sealed her vow with a deep kiss, Grissom tracked her motions to the bathroom, his mouth slightly open the entire time. Once she was out of sight, he let out a frustrated growl. "That really didn't help."

Climbing out of bed, he pulled on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Instinct took him to his laptop to check his e-mail, but he stopped short. With the exception of his mother, the majority of his messages were work-related. With no desire to read those, he started a fresh pot of coffee and turned to his living room. By the time Sara entered, he'd lugged most of the sparse furnishings away from the walls and covered them with plastic drop cloths.

She gave him a tentative smile, looking around self-consciously. He forced himself to return it, understanding her unease. This hadn't been a casual encounter. It went deeper, and they were both still mapping out new territory.

"There's coffee in the kitchen. Did you get enough rest?"

"I'm fine."

Grissom paused to regard her closely. Considering it was obvious she was still tired, she wasn't fine. Her work schedule during this case was staggering, even by her usual standards. But Rachel's apparent kidnapping was too important to her; she'd work herself to the point of exhaustion. Watching her shovel sugar into her coffee, he estimated that she wasn't too far from that point. Unsure what else to do, he retrieved a travel mug from his cabinet and poured Sara more to take with her.

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat? You can get some nutrition with your calories."

"I'm fine," she stated, giving him a contrite smile to counter her tone. "Well, good enough for government work."

"It wouldn't take long."

"No, I need to swing by my place to change clothes. I have some pasta salad I need to finish off anyway. Rain check?"

"I'll hold you to it," he said softly, walking towards her. He took the empty cup from her, and gave her the travel mug in exchange. His hands lingered on hers, and she leaned in closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

"I _…_ thanks for understanding," she said, the corner of her mouth curling slightly as she pulled away. "Or at least pretending to."

"I do. It's _…_ I just don't want you to go," he admitted simply.

"I'll be back."

Grissom nodded as she reluctantly headed for the door. He stood still, alone in his bare living room, staring at his feet. When she was halfway out, the words escaped. "Do you regret this?"

The question tormented him. He had to know, and he didn't want her to answer. Facing his own inner doubts paled in comparison to confirmation. Maybe he hoped she'd be too far away to hear, or that she'd pull her famous walking-out-the-door routine, but she froze.

"No." Recognizing how unconvincing that sounded, she steadied her voice. "No, I don't."

"Sara?"

She turned around slowly, walking towards him with an even slower pace. "I don't regret it. Not yet."

"I thought you wanted this."

"I did. I still do. But …"

"What?"

He watched as she chewed the inside of her lip, finally shrugging as she faced him. "I think you'll regret it."

His only reaction to that was to walk back into his kitchen. He avoided the eye roll directed his way, but did start when he felt her hand slide down his arm.

"Grissom," she sighed. "Okay, let's start with the obvious. The timing is terrible. You're under investigation for harassing me. If anyone finds out about us, it'll look bad. Really bad."

"I don't care. I'm resigning."

"That's the other thing." Sara waited until he turned to her with an inquisitive look. "You're under a lot of stress."

"I'm still capable of making a simple decision," he said tightly.

"Hey, I'm not asking you to open up to me. We don't have to talk about it. I know you're …not the most talkative guy. And I'm cool with that. Really. It's who you are. But don't lie to me."

He dropped his head, bothered more by her easy acceptance of his flaws – establishing that she thought he was incapable of change – than her accusation. It was true, but it stung. He didn't want to hurt her, not again, but she didn't understand how sensitive the subject was for him.

Their current conversation wasn't helping. For years, he'd taken her affection for granted, always assuming that she'd be there if he ever decided to allow the relationship. That belief had been battered over the past year, but her frank admission of doubts shook him to his core.

"Look, this moved too fast. That's my fault," she continued, again prompting him to look at her quizzically. "I'm the one that was supposed to stay level-headed. But you were very persuasive," she said, adding a smile to soften her message.

"Not persuasive enough."

"I don't think you know how persuasive you really were," she countered firmly. Glancing away for a moment, she gathered her thoughts. And her courage. "A lot has happened between us. A hell of a lot. There were some good things, but way too much shitty stuff. Both of us made mistakes. We can't pretend it never happened. Not at this point."

"I …," Grissom started, his hand waving weakly between them. "We …"

"Don't," she said, letting out a defeated sigh. "You don't have to say anything."

His gaze pierced her, but Sara returned it easily. "Hey, you're not getting dumped. I'm the one that hung around for years. I'm the one who always wanted this."

"We both did."

"Okay, I was the one willing to try. You weren't. And quitting your job won't make it all better."

"I'm doing it for you," he said, pain evident in his strained voice.

"I know," she said, running her hands through her hair. "But I don't want you to give it up. There never had to be a choice. I can't stop you, but don't do it for me. It means too much to you. Don't. Please, don't deny it. We both know you lived for your work."

"Then maybe it's time I started working on living, instead."

Sara smiled sadly at him as she reached out to stroke his cheek. "That sounds good. And I'll help anyway I can. But you _can_ have both. I never wanted you to give anything up for me. I don't want to be the reason why you give anything up."

"Where are we?" he asked after a long pause.

"At the start of a long road. But we'll be taking it together. I want this to work."

"So do I."

Her expression softened as he slunk out of the room. She loved him, possibly more than was healthy, but what she said was true. More importantly, it needed to be said. The timing wasn't best, but he had asked, and she wasn't going to lie. Following him, she gave Grissom another kiss before returning to the door. "Later?"

"Sure," he said, staring quietly as she left. He stood there for a moment, feeling more alone than he had before. Picking up the spackle, he vigorously attacked the holes in his walls.

* * *

Pushing back her hair, Sara stared at the pages, willing something useful to appear. She'd gone over all the notebooks Greg had pulled from Wilcox's garbage. There were exacting calculations of the Kenyons' net worth, detailed analyses of how long it would take to convert them to cash, and tons of information on offshore bank accounts. The original plan was clear. Wilcox, Malco and their unknown partner planned to have the Kenyons wire the money to one account and then rapidly transfer the funds through other banks. By the time the authorities tracked all the transactions to the last bank, the kidnappers would have had plenty of time to disappear and cover their trail.

What she couldn't find was any indication of who this last partner was. Not only was he the probable killer of Wilcox and Malco, he was the only person who knew where Rachel was.

Or where they dumped her body.

Rachel was only worth something to them if she was still alive. But something had gone very wrong, bad enough for two of the accomplices to die. Did the lone remaining kidnapper have a plan or would he dispose of her? Hell, they didn't even know if there was only one other person involved.

Scowling, Sara started with the first notebook again. She'd spent hours going through them already. There were plenty of the encoded messages left, but without the phrase used as the key, she'd never be able to decipher them. So far, all their attempts to determine Malco's true identity eluded them. His DNA wasn't in CODIS, and without his hands there was no way to check his fingerprints. His killer had even wiped down the tenement Malco lived in.

Pausing to stretch her muscles, she rolled her eyes when her stomach growled angrily. She'd need to grab some lunch soon. Her body worked without food or without sleep, but not both at the same time. A mental break would help clear her head, too.

She immediately thought about Grissom, but hesitated to call him in case he was asleep. He needed rest more than she did. No matter how tightly he bottled it up, he was under duress. The accusations, the loss of something so important to him had to hurt. It hurt her, and she was on the sidelines.

Her hand rested on her cell phone as she pondered her options. She wanted to see him, suspecting he'd welcome the reassurance. They hadn't left on the best terms, but she had to be honest with him. It was unpleasant, but it was the only way they'd ever make things work.

What she didn't tell him was that she was also upset with herself. At least a little bit. After so many rejections, she'd slept with him without question. But he needed her as much as she needed him. He'd been right; the parallels between her life and Rachel's were obvious. The case brought up memories she'd rather have left forgotten.

She was debating whether to send him a text message or contact him later when Catherine walked wearily into the Layout Room.

"Hey. How's it going with that code?"

"Not good," Sara said. "I don't know if I have all the pages from the pad that were used to encrypt the messages. Even if I do, I don't know what order they were used. And if I figure that out, it's all meaningless without the key phrase."

"Think you'll find it in the notebooks?"

"I don't know. It could be anything. Names, a song lyric, gibberish."

"Okay, for now work on those bank accounts. See if you find out who and where they were opened. Maybe that'll give us something to work with."

Sara nodded, not surprised when she didn't leave. Catherine spotting her with Grissom earlier was a stroke a bad luck. Resting her palms on the table, she dropped her head wearily.

"Grissom showed up, Cath."

"At the lab?" she exclaimed, lowering her voice at Sara's sharp look. "He came to the lab?"

"The lab's parking lot. He was standing out there by my car. What was I supposed to do?"

"Why doesn't that surprise me? For a frickin' genius, he can be dense. Talking with you is probably the dumbest thing he could do," she said, pausing significantly. "Well, one of the dumbest things."

Sara's head snapped up, but she refrained from commenting on the implication. "He doesn't see it that way."

"Is he really serious about quitting?"

"He's … pissed. I've never seen him like this. I don't think I'd be surprised by anything he did at this point," Sara answered with a silent understatement. Catherine had no idea how much he'd already surprised her. "I mean he's not the most open guy in the world, but you can tell this got to him. Work was everything to him."

She leaned back in her chair before nodding sagaciously. "I always knew he'd leave the lab someday. Never thought it would be under these circumstances."

"It's bogus."

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch, and Gil's getting burned."

Sara let out an angry huff. "What about Ecklie's investigation?"

"Nada so far. There's no record of Gil working on anything related to Myers," Catherine said. "That's not to say he didn't do something to piss her off that's not in the records. Ecklie's trying to see if he can find anything on that angle. It's also possible Myers is just making a mistake. No one's perfect."

"I don't buy that. This is a deliberate attempt to twist things against Grissom. It's not an accident or incompetence, especially from someone with a record like Myers has," she said firmly. "This is personal."

"Gil and personal in the same context. That's not something I'd expect."

Sara ignored the knowing – and somewhat amused – look directed her way.

"There has to be something we can do to stop this," she said instead.

"Like not adding fuel to the fire? I know Gil is politically tone deaf, but I thought you had more sense. Everything he does is under a microscope right now, and it's being twisted."

"Cath, he showed up," she repeated in exasperation. "Did you want me to abandon him in the parking lot when _Grissom_ was the one who said he wanted to talk?"

"No, I guess not," she said with a calculated ease. "Did he say where he was going?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's not a lot of job opportunities for a forensic entomologist in Vegas. I don't think the university has anything. I know he makes some decent money with his lectures, but I don't think there's enough to make a living."

"He didn't say anything about it," Sara said, her brow wrinkling in doubt. Hadn't he said that he wasn't planning on moving? For now. He already thought about this before they got together. Of course, he did. Grissom was a famous scientist, but in a very specialized field. Positions requiring his skills didn't exist everywhere. He'd have to go to the job.

Did he expect her to just yank up her life again for him, or did he wait to see if she'd be willing to enter a relationship first? Was there any reason for her not to follow him? She had friends here, she was settled into a job that she liked most of the time. But she loved him. As much as she wanted it to work, she was too pragmatic to deny the difficulties they faced. If she could just convince him that quitting wasn't necessary.

"That's what I thought. He hasn't thought this through. He's going to do something he regrets."

"I told him that."

Catherine leaned forward, keeping her voice low. "He needs to be careful. Gil was never the best at dealing with things like this, and he's under a lot of stress right now."

"I know."

"He's not in the best frame of mind to be making major life decisions."

Sara nodded vaguely, refusing to comment on the undercurrents flowing through the discussion. For the most part, she had this conversation with herself in the moments after she woke up in Grissom's bed, but hearing someone else raise the same doubts made it seem more real. And it was already very real to her.

Amazingly, Catherine's statement seemed more like a warning for her, that she'd be the one to be hurt. While their working relationship was always hot or cold, the gesture had her off-balance. The older woman watched her carefully, but Greg's arrival provided a welcomed distraction, and Sara turned to him quickly.

"Find anything out about Malco?"

"Besides that he doesn't exist? No records anywhere of him. No Social Security card, bank accounts. We already know his drivers license was bogus. And I checked with Doc. Dental records aren't going to help, either. The gunshot to the head destroyed too much of the jaw and teeth."

"We need to find out who this Malco guy really is. He's the key," Catherine said. "If we figure out who he is, he'll lead us to the third kidnapper. The killer took his hands for a reason. His fingerprints exist somewhere. Greg, he had a tattoo on his right shoulder. Check the records, see if you can find any criminals with a matching tattoo."

"First, let's not mention the fact that his prints could be from military service, or he was bonded. Next, he had a cross on his right shoulder. Do you have any idea how many guys will match that?"

"Do you have any other ideas on how to match him" Catherine asked shortly.

"Start with anyone who was in prison the same time as Wilcox, and who were out at the time of the kidnapping," Sara suggested. "Maybe they met there."

"Good idea."

A ringing caused them to check their cell phones, but it was Sara who answered.

"Sidle."

"Hey," Grissom said.

She shot a nervous look to the others, but they were absorbed in their own conversation. "Uh, huh."

"It's time for protein coagulation."

"What?" Sara asked, her voice low but showing her annoyance as she wondered what he was trying to prove. Whether it was loneliness or an attempt to pull her strings, calling her at work was asking for trouble.

"I'm putting a pan of eggs on to boil for egg salad sandwiches," Grissom stated.

"Uh, huh."

"Should I put enough on for two?"

"Uh…"

"It's just lunch."

"That's not it," she said, wondering how to answer without alerting the others. She strolled to the far corner of the room. He sounded sad. On top of everything that had happened to him already, she didn't want to add any more pain.

"You're not in a position to talk," he guessed.

"Right."

"Ah. Is Ecklie or Burdick there?"

"No."

"Good," Grissom said, his tone a bit more relaxed. "That takes us back to the eggs. Do you have time to come to my place for some lunch? It'll be ready by the time you get here."

The drive to and from his home was longer than she had planned on taking off, but he sounded hopeful. Her earlier comments had to be bothering him. She was serious about making this work, and right now that meant addressing his concerns. Besides, she needed the mental break. The drive would give her time to clear her head.

"All right."

"Is everyone staring at you?"

"Not yet," she half-growled quietly when she realized the others were glancing in her direction curiously.

"Is that my cue to hang up?"

"Sounds good."

"And if Catherine asks, tell her I said to feed my spiders."

"No."

"Okay, okay. Call me from your car, and I'll have everything ready when you get here."

"Bye." Sliding her phone back into its holder, she rejoined Greg and Catherine, who were discussing possible ways of identifying their handless kidnapper.

"I've already started checking missing persons reports. No one's missing Malco," she said.

"That fits," Sara said. "No one at work knew anything about him. He didn't hang with his neighbors. There's no evidence that he lived in Vegas before he went to work at Ronnie's Concrete."

"In that case, I'm off to chase wild geese," Greg said, dramatically bowing as he left the room.

"I'll get to work on those bank accounts after lunch," Sara said casually.

"Are you going to the deli? I could go for a turkey club."

"Uh, no. I, um, need some fresh air," she answered evasively. "I was going to take a drive. I can stop at the deli on the way back in, though."

Catherine studied her carefully for a minute, shaking her head as she left the room. "That's okay."

Swearing under her breath, Sara headed for the parking lot. Grissom's behavior was as cryptic as the mysterious messages she'd been working on – and she felt closer to understanding those than she did to him. He had to know that calling her at work wasn't a smart move. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before Burdick or Myers found out, and there was no way that would help them salvage his career.

But what could she do when he didn't seem to give a damn?

_TBC_


	16. Chapter 16

**Quiet Desperation**  
**Summary:** When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N: **Sorry again for the delays with this story, and a big thanks to those who have stuck with it. I'll get some more up soon. I didn't have a beta for this chapter, so please excuse any typos that made it in.  
**Rating:** PG-13.  
**Disclaimer: **If I had anything to do with the show, do you think I'd admit it at this point?

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Suppressing a yawn, Sara headed towards Grissom's door wearily. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. In spite of all the hours of work she and the others had poured into this case, they were no closer to finding Rachel – at least alive. That fact weighed heavily on her; even with all her efforts, she chided herself for not doing more. For not doing enough.

Giving her head a shake, she pushed that thought aside. On top of their arsenal of scientific training, advanced equipment and years of experience, there was another tool CSIs relied on greatly, even if it wasn't often acknowledged. They counted on criminals being stupid, of making mistakes that allowed the investigators to identify them. All kinds of criminals bragged about their activities. Murderers killed in front of witnesses, bank robbers used their own deposit slips to write demands, batterers left threatening messages beforehand. The clues left ranged from puzzling to obvious, but now they had a kidnapper and probable murderer who was smart enough to cover all his tracks. He wasn't making mistakes.

She wished she could say the same about Grissom. There was no way he wouldn't eventually regret quitting his job, of not putting up a fight. It meant too much to him. He was hurt, stunned, and she feared, rushing into decisions. The trouble was convincing him of her concerns without it seeming like she was pushing him away. In hindsight, she had to agree it wasn't smart to start their relationship now, but there was no going back. They were together, and they had to face the consequences of that choice.

In spite of her concerns about Grissom's behavior, Sara found herself almost grinning as she knocked on his door. It was just lunch, but it was the type of simple activity she'd wanted to share with him for the longest time. Thoughts of other activities filtered into her brain when the door opened.

"Hi," she said, hoping it didn't really sound like a purr. He'd showered recently, his curls still slightly damp and not completely tamed. The deep blue polo shirt and black slacks cut a striking figure, and Sara's appreciative smile didn't go unnoticed.

"Hey."

Letting him escort her inside, Sara felt a flush creeping up her cheeks as his hand rested lightly on the small of her back. Catching sight of his dining room, she finally smiled. The candlelit table sat in a small clearing amid the clutter of plastic-draped furniture. A platter of neatly arranged sandwiches sat next to a glass bowl full of potato chips. Wine glasses held iced tea, with a carafe nearby for refills.

"Fancy," she said, fingering a neatly folded napkin on the closest plate.

Grissom shrugged as he headed into the kitchen, glad that she didn't seem upset by his phone call. He understood her concerns, but his primary objective was reassuring her that he had no qualms about his choices. He hated what happened to his career, but that was bearable. Losing her wouldn't be.

"I know you won't have the time for a proper date until this case is over, but I wanted to do something," he called out. "I wasn't sure if you liked wheat or white, so I made both."

"Need a hand?" she asked when he didn't return immediately.

"I think so."

His frustrated tone caused Sara to tilt her head, but she had to bite back her laughter when she saw the source of his consternation. A bunch of flowers flopped uncontrollably in a water glass despite his attempts to coerce them into a neat arrangement.

He gave her a mock-scowl when he saw her expression. "The grocery store didn't have anything in vases, and I don't have one."

"The stems are too long for the glass," she said, clearing her throat to cover the laugh. When he pulled the flowers out and trimmed them with a whack of a butcher knife, she grabbed a plate of pickle spears and quickly headed back to the dining room.

"I think it's safe to say that I'm not going to be a florist," he said, setting the flowers on the table. A smirk formed as he cocked his head to examine his handiwork. "At least not a very good one."

"Grissom," she began, pausing at his look. He meant it as a joke, but she found nothing funny about the situation. She considered urging him again to fight the charge, but he'd been adamant earlier. Their new relationship was too nebulous and unsettled for her to know how much interference he'd brook. He'd let her in, but she suspected it wouldn't take much to make him push her out again.

They ate silently for a bit, both of them occasionally pausing to smile at the other. Feeling the tension, Sara took a long drink of tea before glancing over his shoulder.

"You were serious about redecorating."

Grissom nodded vaguely. It was small talk, but it was better than the silence. He had wanted this to be light, for her to feel comfortable, to know that he was serious. What he didn't want to do was dwell on the painful decisions he had made. "I have the time."

"Yeah," she said sadly.

"It needed it." He didn't go into details. While always a neat person, he'd been shocked at how much better the walls looked after a thorough cleaning. Walls were things that were always there; you knew they existed, but never paid them any attention. Not until they were gone, and everything came crashing down on you. Looking across the table, Grissom acknowledged that wasn't all he'd taken for granted.

"Just seems like an odd thing to worry about now."

The inflection on the last word was impossible to miss, but he wasn't in the mood to argue. No one would ever accused him of being superstitious, but their disagreement over this bothered him. Starting a relationship with a fight couldn't bode well for the future. He shot her a quick glance before indicating the sparse, white walls. "If a man's home is supposed to be a reflection of his personality, what does this say about me?"

"You're a single, male workaholic? Who makes a great sandwich," Sara answered lightly, easily deflecting his unspoken self-criticism. Her actions garnered a brief, grateful smile. "So what color are you going to paint it?"

"I don't know." Seeing her confused expression, he pointed over his shoulder. "That's just primer."

"Oh."

"I've spackled the walls, sanded them and washed them down with TSP. Once they dry, I'll prime them, then I'll worry about the paint."

"You are … thorough." She fiddled nervously with her glass for a moment before deciding to test the waters. "I can't believe you're spending your time on this."

Grissom's eyes snapped up briefly before he reached for a pickle. "What's the point of doing something if you don't do it right?"

"You know, don't get me wrong. I think I'll _enjoy_ that attitude," she said, flashing him a quick, salacious wink before turning serious. "But you know what I mean. It doesn't have to be this way."

She worried that he was going to shut her out when he concentrated on his lunch, but after a minute he leaned back in his chair. He didn't seem comfortable, but he took a long breath before beginning.

"Lew Wallace," he stated simply, waiting until she shook her head in confusion. "He was the most successful American novelist of the nineteenth century, best known for writing 'Ben Hur'. It was the country's best-selling book in history at the time. It's never gone out of print."

"I've seen the movie."

"He also had a successful political career. Governor of New Mexico, U.S. minister to the Ottoman Empire."

"Sounds like he had quite a life," she replied, curious about his current tangent, but not pressing. Even if she knew that he didn't like to talk about himself, his behavior betrayed his unease. He avoided looking at her for any length of time, concentrating on his lunch.

"But that wasn't what he was known for in his lifetime," he said eventually, letting out a humorless laugh before falling silent.

Sara waited patiently, finally reaching over the table to brush his hand lightly. "You okay?"

"I'm not babbling," Grissom said, turning his hand over and twining his fingers around hers. He stared at their joined hands for a long time before continuing. "Wallace was the youngest general in the Union Army, well-known in the press, but his personality made him unpopular with his supervisors."

She smiled slightly as she began to understand where he was going. "Is that a fact?"

"Yes. And when it took him all day to bring up his reinforcements from six miles away at the Battle of Shiloh, he was vilified. The Union Army suffered over twelve thousand causalities. That one battle effectively ended his career."

History hadn't been her favorite subject, but Sara scanned her memory. Watching Grissom's dejected postured she realized it wasn't necessary. "Was Wallace responsible?" she asked softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"No," he answered lowly, fixing her with a sharp gaze. "He was a political scapegoat."

Sara nibbled on her sandwich silently, shaking her head when Grissom indicated a bowl of fruit absentmindedly. He was mulling over something, and she decided to wait for him to gather his thoughts.

"Wallace did his job, in what he thought was a very efficient manner. But none of the messengers told him the Union Army had retreated. He took the most direct route to where it was supposed to be. The public wanted someone to blame, and he didn't have the connections to protect his career. The other generals he aggravated turned against him. Historians agree that his seven thousand troops wouldn't have made a difference, even if he'd been there at the start of the battle."

"But history showed he wasn't to blame," she said, frowning slightly. "He was vindicated."

"Not in his lifetime. It followed him everywhere," Grissom said harshly. "When he ran for governor of his home state. When he was under consideration for a Cabinet position. The innuendos, the slurs, they'd followed him, even after his other accomplishments."

Sara shifted a potato chip uneasily on her plate. Leave it to Grissom to use a history lesson to talk about something deeply personal. Even this seemed to be costing him, though. Her fingers tightened again. "Did he try to set the record straight?"

Grissom nodded sagely. "All the time. It consumed him. For the next forty years, he did everything he could to try to prove his lack of culpability."

"And it didn't work?" she asked, suspecting the answer.

"It only made things worse," he said pointedly. "Grant and Sherman left their lines unprotected. To prove his innocence, he had to attack his supervisors. It made him seem bitter and vengeful. 'I'm a scapegoat!' isn't exactly a convincing argument," he said, locking eyes with her. "Especially when the evidence seems to support the charges against you."

"There is no evidence against you," she countered hotly.

"That will hold up in court? Probably not. But in the court of public opinion? That doesn't take much."

"When have you ever cared what people thought about you?"

"Wallace faced no charges for what happened at Shiloh, but people believed it. Even though he was successful in other ways, the accusations haunted him for the rest of his life. And those he cared about suffered, too," he added softly.

Sara blinked as he pulled his hand back, distractedly refilling their glasses. She'd never considered that he was trying to protect her. Briefly, she speculated what people would think of their relationship if they believed he'd harassed her, but quickly dismissed the thought. She wasn't concerned about the opinions of anyone who'd believe something like that.

"Are you worried about me? Don't be. I don't care what people think about us. And who's going to know? We both value our privacy. It's not like we're going to be doing it in the lab."

"It could complicate things."

Her head bobbed quickly in acknowledgement, but her voice was level. "I've survived worse."

"Too much," he added, surprising her again with his tender look. It didn't last long as he one-handedly attacked his sandwich.

"Could you do me a favor?" she asked softly, waiting until he glanced back up. The nervous expression cut, and she shook her head. "Never mind."

"No, I'll do it if I can."

"Don't resign. Wait, don't get angry. Don't do it yet. Just wait a day or two, okay? I think you're making a mistake, but if you want to do it, I'll support you. But I need to know you aren't rushing into this."

"Sara," he growled in frustration.

"I understand. If you leave before this becomes official, you keep your reputation. But they can't do anything until they talk to me about this. And they're not going to bother me while I'm working Rachel's case," she said, pausing for a moment. "Well, they might, but I'm going to ignore them if they do. Just a day or two."

"Fine." The word came out as a bark. He dropped his head quickly, taking a ragged breath before holding his hands out to his walls. "So, what color would you use?" he asked with a forced casualness.

"It's not my choice," Sara stammered, sensing their prior conversation was over. It frustrated her that he shut down so quickly, but even the little he opened up was a major step for him. He was trying, in his own way.

"No, but you know what you're doing. I'm the single, male workaholic. Who mutilates flowers."

Sara's lips twitched as she took another sip, allowing the conversation to go a lighter route. Turning her attention to his home, her brow furrowed slightly. There wasn't a lot to work with. "Well, normally, I'd say pick something that goes with your rug or furniture, but the leather's pretty neutral."

"And I don't have a rug."

"No. So just pick whatever color you like."

Grissom dropped his shoulders petulantly. "I like white. It's a good backdrop for the butterflies," he explained.

"Then use white."

"That's not really a change. It's still … sterile."

She finished off her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. She got the impression he wasn't doing this entirely to fill his time. He was making external adjustments to his life as well. The rapid changes didn't help alleviate her fears that he was going through a mid-life crisis. One thing was clear; he was trying to let her know that her opinion mattered.

"Use accents, then. The butterflies are a nice touch. Get some rugs, or a throw on the couch with some pillows. Plants are good, too. We can go shopping when this case is over," she added when he seemed uncertain about her suggestions.

"Okay. How is the case going?" he asked, nudging the bowl of chips in her direction and ignoring her warning glare. "Talking through it might help. Were you able to find what you needed to decipher the messages?"

"No," she answered after a hesitant beat. At this point if anything was going to happen to them talking to him about the case was the least of their transgressions. "After lunch, I'm going to see if I can make any progress on who opened the offshore bank accounts."

"I take it the names are fakes?" he asked, pausing in thought.

"Yeah."

"Like the driver license Malco used."

Sara caught his expression, and a grin started slowly. "Like the passport Nick found."

"Lots of fake documents."

"Very accurate fake documents. They used a forger."

"I don't think so," Grissom said slowly. "Not an outside one. Whoever was the brain behind this operation went to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks. He wouldn't risk an outside party knowing about it. Malco or your missing third person was the forger."

"I'll look into it when I get back. There can't be that many forgers out there with the qualifications to do this."

"Probably more than you realize," he said, shrugging as he took his plate to the kitchen. "Did you get enough to eat?"

"Yeah. Thanks. This was … nice," Sara replied, handing over her own plate and glass. "And thanks. For talking to me. I think I understand why you don't want to fight this. I don't agree, but it's your decision."

Grissom looked away quickly, and she tentatively rested a hand on his arm. She knew he wasn't big on public displays of affection, but wasn't sure what he'd find comfortable in the privacy of his home. When he turned around and gently drew her into an embrace, she relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"You're tired," he noted.

"Exhausted," she corrected lightly, leaning back to smile when she felt him tense. "Almost."

"When was the last time you slept? I mean more than a nap."

"The other day. When I got back from the library," she said, unsuccessfully fighting back a yawn. "Too bad it was on my floor and not my bed."

"Why don't you take some time off when this case is over?" he suggested kindly.

Sara's initial inclination to automatically reject the offer died on her lips when he pulled her against his body, softly running his hands over her back. The idea of some time away from work suddenly seemed more enjoyable.

"I'll think about it," she said, pecking his cheek quickly before pulling away. "Later."

"I'm beginning to hate that word."

"Really? 'Cause I'm looking forward to it."

Grissom smirked at her as they walked toward the door. Cupping her face in his hands, he leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss, his eyes twinkling when he eventually pulled away. "For later," he deadpanned.

Sara's toothy grin triggered his own smile as his hands worked their way to her hips. "Want to meet for breakfast?"

"I don't know when I'll get off," she said honestly, giving him a warning look. "I'll call you."

He lifted his hands, giving his head a bare nod. "Fair enough."

Suddenly feeling a bit bashful, Sara rolled her shoulders. "I was planning on catching up on some sleep after shift. I, uh, well, your place smells. Damn. It's going to. The fumes. From the paint."

"Is this an invitation?"

"A pretty crappy one."

"Let me know when you're ready to go home. I'll meet you there," he said, giving her a parting kiss before she left. His eyes snapped open partway through, still staring when she pulled away.

"For later," she said, giving him a wicked grin as she left.

* * *

Shift was nearly over when Catherine wandered into the Layout Room where Sara was pouring over evidence. Walking over, she spotted a stack of photographs and began flipping through them. 

"That was _quick_ lunch," she said with a smirk, nodding in the direction of the conference room before Sara had time to reply. "The guys just got back in. We're having a meeting in a few minutes."

"Okay."

"Is this Rachel?"

Her irritation dying down, Sara looked at the photograph in question. "When she was a kid. Why?"

"Nothing," Catherine said distractedly, ignoring the eyebrow raised in her direction. "Probably nothing."

"Which means it's possibly something."

"You never know. Damn. Are you okay? You look worse than I feel. Grab some coffee before the meeting."

Sara let the comment slide as she dove into the locker room to splash cold water on her face. She did look terrible. The sparse makeup she normally wore did little to cover the dark bags under her eyes. Time was critical on a case like this, and too much was wasted early on. As much as she wanted to keep working, though, she knew she'd have to take time to get some solid sleep soon. If nothing else she'd start making mistakes. The thought that she wouldn't be alone when she did climb into bed perked her up slightly. After grabbing her coffee, she joined the others in the conference room.

"Well, I printed all the trucks at Ronnie's Cement," Warrick began after she took a seat. "And their offices. They must have a revolving door for drivers. Don't ask how many prints I got. Even more partials. Jacqui's running them through AFIS now. The partials are a bitch; she has to eliminate those by hand. I don't think she's ever talking to me again."

"Buy her a beer," Catherine advised. "I've been checking out Malco. There's not much to go on. He didn't hang with people at work or his neighbors. He didn't have many outgoing calls. I've pulled the records from the phone booths in the area, but there's no way of knowing if he had a prepaid cell. What about you, Nick?"

"Wilcox's house was definitely torched. Hydrocarbons confirm an accelerant was used. Lots of it by the extent of the damage."

"Someone didn't want us finding anything useful," Greg noted. "Good thing I rescued all that trash earlier."

"Yeah. Hodges is figuring out what the accelerant was. So far, the passport is the only thing I found in there that's probative. Ronnie confirmed the signature is consistent with Wilcox's."

"I've been going through his garbage. The bloody blue coveralls? The fiber is a match to the fibers Sara found at the library, and the blood on them isn't Rachel's," Greg said, pausing for emphasis. "It's Malco's."

"Was there any blood on Malco's clothes?" she asked.

"Lots. But all his own," Sara answered. "None of other clothes found in his place had blood on them, though. That's not to say it wasn't ditched somewhere after they took Rachel and before he was killed."

"Well, I haven't had any luck trying to match Malco's tattoo, even checking against people who were in prison at the same time as Wilcox," Greg added.

"Try narrowing it down to forgers," Sara said. "His drivers license was fake, so was the passport, and the names used to open the bank accounts. Either Malco or the other guy was probably a forger."

"Good point. That fresh air really cleared your head," Catherine said, smiling innocently at her expression.

"The license isn't hard, but the passport takes a bit more work. I'll see if I can find out how many locals can forge those types of documents," Brass said. "I'm running out of leads."

"Jim, what did you find out about Wilcox?"

"After Sara spooked him at the construction office, I figured he'd get in contact with whoever his partner was. No phone calls from his home. But, here's the fun part, there were a bunch of calls made to the pay phone outside of Dvorak's Body Shop."

"The same phone used to call Malco before he died," Catherine added.

"Any luck finding out who made the calls?" Warrick asked.

"No. The owner, Victor Dvorak, has an office in the back, and the phone is out front of the building. There're no security cameras anywhere near the shop. And talking to his employees was a real treat. Every one of them has a record. And, big surprise, no one saw anything."

"I know that's not the best job in the world, but isn't it odd that they're all criminals?" Greg asked.

"I was thinking the same thing. That's why I'm going to talk to him again later," Brass said.

"What about Dvorak?" Catherine asked.

He shrugged as he stirred his coffee. "He's clean. No record at all. He's taken full responsibility for what happened, begging the D.A. not to charge any of his employees. He didn't tell any of them that he found the car in the lot."

"That doesn't mean one of them didn't put it there," Nick pointed out.

"Very true," the detective noted. "What about those phone tips you and Warrick followed?"

"Nothing. Some of them saw her, but before she went missing. The ones after that all fell through."

"Well, I've got more for you. The Kenyons upped the reward money to a cool million for any tips that find Rachel."

"Oh, man. Every nut in the area will be calling now for that type of money."

"They already are. We've got people on the switchboard trying to filter out the obvious loonies. There were a handful that might be promising," he said, tossing a manila folder across the table.

Warrick took it and groaned before looking to Nick. "Might as well get these out of the way. Then I'm going home to catch a nap."

"Sounds good, buddy."

"Greg, see if you can help Hodges with the Trace," Catherine said before heading to her office. Once there, she pulled out a folder, quickly flipping through the pages until she found a newspaper cutting. A sly grin formed as she grabbed her Rolodex and picked up the phone. "Hey, Marcy. It's Catherine from the Crime Lab. I need you to check some records for me when you get in."

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**See note in my profile about updates.**

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	17. Chapter 17

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary: **When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** I really haven't forgotten this story It's taken a long time, and it's not my best work, but I do have an update. I'm doing my best to get this wrapped up while I'm feeling okay. Thanks again to everyone for their get-well wishes.  
**Rating:** PG-13.  
**Disclaimer**: If I had anything to do with the show, do you think I'd admit it at this point?

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**Chapter 17 **

Entering the Interrogation Room, Brass kept his expression neutral as he approached the man nervously fidgeting in his chair. Victor Dvorak had some explaining to do. He looked up with a pained expression as the detective sat opposite of him.

"Did you find the girl?" he asked hopefully.

"Not yet. That's why I want to talk to you."

"What can I do?"

Brass folded his hands casually on the top of the examine table. "Don't you want to wait for your attorney?"

"I never called him," the auto shop owner said.

"I think that you may want to."

"It's, it's okay. I want to help. I'm so sorry about this. I never shoulda gutted that car."

"No, you shouldn't." Leaning back in his chair, he tried to figure out Dvorak. He employed a host of criminals, not an activity normally associated with the legitimate business community. But he had also taken full responsibility and was cooperating, letting them check his home and business without a warrant.

Either he had nothing to hide, or he hid it well. The former seemed more likely, but Brass wanted to make sure.

"Okay, let's go over this again. Who let you know her car was in your lot?"

Dvorak cocked his head in confusion. "No one. I told you. I found it there when I opened in the morning. I thought someone dumped it for the insurance. Some people do that."

"Yeah. And some people dump cars for other reasons. We call them criminals. Like," Brass said, pausing dramatically as he opened a file. "Well, all of your employees."

"You can't think one of my guys had something to do with this."

"What am I thinking? A criminal involved in a criminal act? Let's cut the crap. You hire crooks. And only crooks. A criminal investigation led to your shop. The way I see it, there are two options. You're involved and have a bunch of convenient scapegoats…"

"You can't think I did this!"

Brass shrugged noncommittally, but Dvorak's record was so clean it was squeaker than the mechanic's voice. "Then there's option two: one of your cons did it."

"I…I don't believe they'd do it."

"Because working as a grease monkey is such a great career?"

Dvorak leaned over the table. "Look, I ain't saying they're saints. I know what they are. But none of them did anything really bad. It's all minor stuff, mostly when they were kids. Check their records."

"I did."

"Then you know what I mean."

"So, what, you're some sort of self-appointed rehabilitation service?" he asked in honest curiosity.

"I give them a chance to get their shit together. Don't give me that look. I ain't dumb. I don't let them near the money. I lock up inventory. They know the rules. They show up late, they cop an attitude with me or a customer, they're history. I don't take no lip from them."

"Uh, huh."

"Hey, I was a punk when I was a kid. I lucked out. Someone took the time to give me a break. I ain't got much, but what I got I owe him. I can't pay much, so I don't get people that know what they're doing. I get employees who want to straighten themselves out. They get a reference if they want to get a job somewheres else."

Brass let out a sigh. The arrangement made sense, even if it wasn't something he'd try personally. So far, there was no physical evidence to suggest that Dvorak was lying, or that any of his employees were involved. But someone knew to dump Rachel's car in Dvorak's back lot.

"What about your guys, then?" Brass prodded. "Even if none of them would do this, maybe one of them knows someone who would. 'Cause your lot isn't visible from the road, and someone knew how to get back there."

Dvorak scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I guess that's possible. Ducky's uncle was a kidnapper, but I think he's in prison. And Ducky was in the hospital getting his tonsils out. Have you talked to Jesse?" he asked after a long moment.

"Jesse Patrick? Why him?"

"His cousins are trouble. Rape, assault, carjacking. I almost had to fire him for letting them hang out in the bays. I don't want that type of scum around my place."

"How did the scum take that?"

"Not good. They were pretty pissed," he said, pausing significantly. "But Jesse, he's not like that. He wouldn't help them. His mom musta been screwing around, 'cause he's smarter than the rest of the family put together."

Brass smirked, writing down notes quickly. "You know where I can find them?"

"I think they live around Henderson." Dvorak swallowed nervously. "Uh, you won't tell them I sent you there, will you? I wanna help, I do, but those guys … if they find out, I'm history."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said before heading out the door.

* * *

Grissom popped the top off his beer, savoring the cool liquid. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he nodded slightly as he surveyed his progress. Just the cleaning and priming had made a big difference. Once things settled down, he'd get Sara's input on the color choices. 

It was more than her unexpected talent in decorating. Her opinion mattered to him, even in something as trivial as paint. He also wanted her to feel comfortable here, to want to spend free time with him. He was going to have plenty of it.

Grissom swallowed another sip of beer quickly as his temper flared. His professional life was in turmoil, his reputation possibly ruined, but he could live with that – as long as Sara was by his side.

Keeping her there was going to be the challenge.

Starting this had been hard enough, but he suspected the worst had yet to pass. Sara seemed uncertain about his actions, possibly doubting his intentions. Not that he could blame her; he had to admit that his behavior probably looked like a reaction to the suspension or resembled a typical midlife crisis.

It wasn't; that was one thing about which he had no questions. She'd been the source of his hopes and dreams for a long time. While the current situation probably contributed to his decision to finally act on those feelings, it wasn't the sole catalyst, and he had no regrets.

When the knocking started, his head tilted curiously as he made his way to the door. Sara said she'd call when she got off work, but shift was barely over. She hadn't sounded too thrilled with his suggestion that they meet somewhere for breakfast, and he doubted she'd take the time from work to drive out here twice in one day.

"Catherine," he said before completely opening the door.

"Hey," she answered airily, walking into his home. Her head swung around as she took in his handiwork. Running her hand over the plastic-covered leather sofa, she laughed softly. "Very retro."

"Feel free to come in. Don't be shy."

"Never happen. You stuck with white. Big surprise."

"That's just the primer. I haven't picked the color yet."

"Uh, huh. Been too busy breeding?"

Grissom relied on his self-control not to choke on his beer. "I beg your pardon," he said coolly.

"Bug breeding grounds. That's why you bought these, isn't it?" she said, indicating numerous potted plants around his kitchen. Her lips twitched as she watched him practically dive behind the refrigerator door. "Why else would you be buying so many plants?"

"I like plants. I have them in my office."

"Right," Catherine said, shaking her head when he held up a bottle of beer. "That coffee plant you bought for that investigation with the dead poker player."

"It's a cacao plant."

"Same difference."

"Besides both being a source of caffeine, not really. And I have always had at least one in my office."

"Yeah, you have a real history with plants," she said with an innocent expression.

Grissom understood the source of her amusement, but surprisingly it didn't perturb him too much. Sara liked plants; she even suggested adding some. The home improvement center where he'd bought the paint supplies carried a huge selection, so he returned after their lunch and bought a couple for each room. He hoped she'd enjoy the surprise.

"You're the one who said my home was a mausoleum," he noted, placing a can of soda before her. Catherine's teasing wasn't bothering him, but he wasn't going to confirm her suspicions.

"I just hope they don't all die on you. This many plants are going to take a lot of watering. With our schedule…"

"Your schedule."

"Our schedule."

"You may want to start writing things down," he said, his vexation clear. "I told you I was quitting."

"Gil, honey, you know you can't lie to me. You're pissed. Don't blame you. But you aren't going to leave the lab."

He drained his remaining beer in one gulp. "Why don't you believe me when I say I'm quitting?"

"Because you haven't," she said simply, resisting the urge to smile at his expression. "You haven't turned in a letter of resignation. If you were serious, Ecklie would be having a heart attack by now."

"Or I'm waiting a few days to cool off before writing it. I'm still a professional, even if Burdick isn't," he said, not mentioning his promise to Sara to wait. Besides, Catherine would only point out that he could have quit before making that promise.

Why hadn't he quit earlier?

"Professional. Right. You expect me to believe that?"

Grissom turned to her incredulously. Besides the overwhelming irony of Catherine making that claim, it stunned him. In all the years they'd worked together, he'd never given her a reason to question his professionalism. Her statement hadn't been cruel but almost annoyed.

"That stunt you pulled in the diner," she explained. "Nothing professional about that."

"I'm not hanging around, Catherine. There's nothing wrong with me sharing a meal with an old friend. I don't care if someone sees us."

"She's more than a friend! Don't you get it?"

"I get it. I don't care."

"Hell of a way to treat a friend," she said, waiting until he turned in confusion. "You don't care what you do her?" As she suspected, his expression grew more perplexed. "You want to throw away your career? That's your choice. But don't ruin Sara's – or mine – in the process."

"I … wasn't," Grissom answered slowly.

Catherine let out an impatient sigh. How could someone be so smart in some areas and still be so dense in others?

"You're accused of harassing Sara. I don't care if it's not true. Think about this! What do you think is going to happen if they find you together after telling you to stay away? To her?"

"Oh."

"You were told to stay away from this case. We're the ones that pay the price if you get caught. Your career isn't the only one in trouble."

He absentmindedly began to scratch his beard. No wonder Sara was upset when he showed up to take her out and when he called her at work. "I didn't think of that," he said.

Catherine grabbed her pager when it began to beep. Getting up, she let herself out, calling over her shoulder as she went. "Look, just hold on, okay? I might have some info that can help you. Just be careful!"

He stood silently, a small facial tic the only sign he was upset. He hadn't meant to endanger Sara, but given the circumstances of his suspension, he now better understood his gaffes. Less than a day into their affair, and he'd already made a big mistake.

His intention had been to convince Sara he'd been serious, that he wanted to be with her, but his execution came up short. He'd have to correct that when he saw her again. A small smile formed as various ideas on how to accomplish that came to mind.

His nose wrinkled distastefully when he noticed his attire. Sara's aversion to decomps was well known, and while he wasn't quite that bad, showing up at her apartment in his current condition wouldn't go over well. Tossing the bottle away, Grissom strode to the bedroom, pulling off his sweaty clothes as he went.

* * *

Nick let out a huge yawn, causing Warrick to chuckle. His friend shot him an irritated glare but without much malice. 

"I thought these things were screened," he said, his drawl exaggerated by exhaustion.

They'd been going over the latest leads brought in by the Kenyons' million-dollar reward offer. Several people saw her at the university library the night she disappeared, enabling them to come up with a tentative timeline for her abduction. Most of the tips, though, were useless.

A large number of them were simply bizarre.

"Be glad we aren't seeing the real nut cases," Warrick said. "That much money attracts them from all over."

"If those weren't nut cases, I don't want to see who is. Remember that guy in Summerlin? He swore Elrond took Rachel to Rivendell. Even had a map. With runes."

"So that call was screened by the one operator who never read Tolkein or saw the movies."

"It's bad enough the guy can't tell reality from fantasy, but he thought the elves were the bad guys," Nick said, yawning again. "Most of those calls were a waste of our time."

"It's not like we have a lot of evidence to work with," Warrick pointed out. His fingers drummed the steering wheel in a steady beat as he regarded his companion. "And we're shorthanded."

"What is up with Grissom?"

"All I heard was that Burdick suspended him."

Nick straightened up in his seat. "I know. But why? No one is saying a thing about it. Did Cath tell you anything?"

"Nothing."

"Don't you think that's weird?"

Warrick eventually nodded. Catherine usually was direct, but she'd been hesitant to even confirm Grissom's suspension. Losing their top CSI was unnerving, but the lack of information only amplified the unease.

"Which means whatever it is, they want to keep it under wraps," Nick said. "And that can't be good."

"It's not the first time he's been suspended," he said.

"Yeah, but when Mobley suspended him, he contradicted the sheriff at a press conference. Everyone knew what happened. I'll tell ya one thing: don't ask Sara. I thought she was going to blow."

"Well, she's always had a soft spot for Grissom."

"It's more than that," Nick insisted. "She's upset. I mean really upset. Something is going on."

"We'll find out when we find out. I think that's our road." Warrick bent forward over the steering wheel to check a cross street, turning onto a small highway. This lead had potential – if the source was reliable. "What did you think about Tammy? She seemed like a nice ki… young lady," he asked cautiously.

"Yeah. She did. But she had trouble staying focused," Nick added diplomatically.

Tammy Frakes was twenty-two, but she had suffered brain damage shortly after birth. It left her with the mental, emotional and intellectual level of a young child. It had taken a long time to get her to answer their questions, but her story, although patchy, seemed promising.

Her extended family often took her with them when they ran errands. On the night Rachel Mathers disappeared, they stopped to get gas. She went to get a soda from a vending machine. As a car drove by, she saw a man in the front passenger seat knock down a young woman in the backseat. The car made a sharp turn off the road and went over a hill and out of sight.

She didn't come forward until she told her story to a family friend, who insisted she tell the police. Her memory was sketchy, and she grew bored with the questioning, but eventually they pieced together what she saw. The car she described matched the make and color of Rachel's, and the involvement of Malco and Wilcox wasn't public knowledge.

"That must be the gas station," Nick said, nodding to the right. "And there is a dirt road up ahead."

Warrick pulled onto the shoulder of the road and getting out to examine the turnoff. "There aren't any tire tracks. Not surprising with the wind out here. Let's keep going."

They exchanged a quick look as they approached a low rise. Once over the top, Nick called out Warrick's name.

"I see it," he said, pulling over near an old sign. It was bent, as if hit by a vehicle. Getting out, he snapped some photos of paint transfer on the metal pole.

"That's consistent with the color of Rachel's car." Nick said. "So's the damage."

"There's a cabin over there," Warrick said, pulling out his cell phone and calling dispatch for backup.

* * *

After his shower, Grissom quickly dressed and packed a small overnight bag. Despite his assorted concerns, a broad grin broke out whenever he passed his bed. 

For several years, he'd fantasized about making love with Sara, the way she'd feel, the things he'd make her feel. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he had built up unrealistic expectations, but the reality, while more hurried than he wanted, exceeded his hopes.

Sara had accepted him as her … companion? Lover? Both words sounded insufficient, and his vast vocabulary failed to find something adequate. It was far more than physical, touching him in ways that left him elated. He hoped it was the same for her.

Setting his bag by the front door, he tried to wait patiently for her phone call. He'd taken that irreversible step. For him, there was no going back; he committed fully to the relationship. But years of doubts didn't vanish overnight, and the lingering thoughts plucked at his nerves.

He tried to wait patiently, but it wasn't easy. Logically, she was busy, not ignoring him. That wasn't her style, even if she had changed her mind. Nothing she said or did suggested that she wanted to back out.

He smiled contentedly as he recalled the look in her eyes as they rested together, both sated for the moment. The deep emotional satisfaction her smile gave him. The simple pleasure of her fingers tracing his jaw. How soft her lips were, the way she tasted, the soft mewing sounds of pleasure and how warm she'd been when he moved inside of her.

Grissom chuckled softly when he began to stir from the memories. He hadn't felt this alive in years, but there was no sense indulging when he'd be seeing Sara soon. Heading into the living room, he only hoped that she wasn't too tired when she finally came home from work.

He sat down at his computer, his lips pursed as he began his research. Earlier, he'd suggested Sara take a vacation. This case was taking a toll on her, and the time off would do her good. It would also give them some time to work on their relationship away from the stress of work, and he spent over an hour compiling an extensive list of possible locales.

Glancing at his watch, he finally accepted that they weren't going to share breakfast. He ate slowly, frowning occasionally as he fought the urge to recheck the time. She promised to call when she was ready to go home. She'd invited him to her home; she wouldn't have done that if she had any regrets. There was no reason to be on edge. Better than anyone, he understood the demands of their … her … job.

He picked up his cell phone, but set it down after a minute. Just because he was bored didn't mean Sara was. If she was busy, a phone call was the last distraction she needed. Especially since he said he would wait for her to contact him.

Besides, he made a blunder contacting her during work. If nothing else, he learned from his mistakes.

Pulling back a sheet of plastic off the couch, he sat down and turned on the television. With any luck, he'd find a poker match on. Grissom started to flip through the channels rapidly, but he backtracked when one of the flashing images registered in his mind.

The screen displayed a picture of Rachel Mathers prominently, but it was the newscaster's voice that grabbed his attention.

"… at the scene where Rachel Mathers was found earlier today by Las Vegas criminalists. We have been unable to confirm whether she was alive…"

All thoughts of patience faded from his mind as Grissom grabbed his cell phone and rushed to the door.

_TBC_


	18. Chapter 18

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary: **When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N:** Just a reminder – this story started when the team was split on the two shifts. Yeah, I know. Way too much time passed while I was working on this Thanks go out to csipal for looking this over, but I'm not sharing any typos. I'm greedy that way.  
**Rating:** PG-13.  
**Disclaimer**: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains, and I still have nothing to do with this show.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Heavy traffic from an accident and the Fates conspired to prolong the drive to Sara's apartment, but Grissom was still trying to organize his thoughts when he finally pulled into the parking lot. Even over the phone, he clearly detected her numbness, and he asked only one question – Where was she? – before promising to get there as soon as possible.

This case had bothered her from the beginning, and whatever transpired during the night apparently made things worse. Now that he was there, he wondered what exactly he could do to help. It wasn't like either personnel or personal issues were his specialty. He wasn't even certain that his attention was welcomed.

Despite her promise, Sara never called to let him know she was home. That suggested she didn't want him around. He told himself it was understandable, and reminded himself that he had routinely unwound alone after a troubling case. An irksome voice in the back of his mind insisted on noting that he had done so out of necessity; Sara chose to be alone when he was available.

Getting out of his car, Grissom considered that his concerns were unfounded. Maybe she just wanted some time alone. Despite knowing each other for years, there was a lot he didn't know about her moods. She was upset, that much was clear. The similarities of Rachel's early life to Sara's, the lack of resources directed at the case in the beginning, even the unfounded accusations directed his way all combined to unsettle her.

After a moment's consideration, he took his overnight bag from the backseat. If she wanted to be alone, he would leave, but he didn't want her thinking he didn't want to be there. A mild wave of guilt assaulted him as he went towards her building; her welfare was his main concern, not fretting over a potential bump in their relationship.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Grissom pulled her into a warm embrace, his lips barely brushing against her cheek. He tried not to wince when he realized how tense she was, instead moving his hand in a soothing motion over her back.

"Hey," he whispered, quietly grateful when she accepted his embrace. They leaned together for a long time, her arms hugging him tightly before she pulled back. Her demeanor suggested she was embarrassed, and he could tell she had been crying. Without thinking about it, his thumb rubbed against the tear tracks. "You should have called."

She stepped away, and her self-conscious shrug confirmed his suspicions. "I was getting ready to when you called me. Really. I don't like people seeing me cry. You don't like watching me cry. Seemed like the right thing to do."

Grissom flexed his hands, his head nodding slightly. Her inner strength was amazing, but he knew it was a survival skill born of necessity. There were old wounds under the surface, and she wasn't ready to expose her vulnerabilities to him yet.

"You don't have to hide from me," he said, accepting that it would take time for that level of trust to form.

"Thanks."

Sara looked at him gratefully, resisting the urge to step farther away. It would be too easy for him to misinterpret the action. She was truly glad that he was there, and she had felt more at ease in his arms than she ever imagined possible. The idea of resting there longer was tempting enough to surprise her, but it was too risky.

Ever since she came to Vegas, he worried that she became too emotional on some cases. She was passionate about her work, and that passion fueled her drive to help the victims. It also cost her, and her attachment to Rachel Mathers left her exhausted, both mentally and physically.

She was the first to admit that she had made mistakes, nearly destroying her career, but she'd made progress. The last thing she wanted was for Grissom to worry that she was going to have a relapse. Soaking his shirt with a crying jag wouldn't put him at ease. Right now, she didn't have the reserves to hold back the tears if she let him coax them out. He had enough problems of his own, whether he was willing to admit to them or not; she wasn't going to add more.

Breaking eye contact, she realized they were still by the door. "Come on in. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine. How is she?" he asked kindly. "The news didn't have any details."

"Rachel was alive, barely, when we found her. Still was, last I heard."

Grissom cocked his head in confusion. "Last you heard?"

"Ecklie sent me home," she said, moving deeper into her apartment. Seeing his expression, she continued quickly. "I maxed out on overtime the other day. He cut me some slack, since we're shorthanded, but I had to leave at the end of shift."

"So Greg is the only CSI on shift now."

"He's doing a great job."

"I don't doubt his abilities. If I did, he'd never have left the lab. But he doesn't that much experience."

"Yeah. There's a lot you can teach him."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose. He understood that she didn't want him to quit, and was honestly touched by her concern, but he also didn't want to talk about it. His anger with the sheriff didn't compare to his feelings for Sara, though; he'd do anything he could to help her.

"You've already done an excellent job teaching him," he noted, deciding to end the conversation. "You found Rachel. That's the most important thing."

"The doctors aren't sure if she's going to make it," Sara said, looking around when he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. After a beat, she closed her eyes and leaned back into him. "I processed her at the hospital. Her foster parents were there."

"That's not surprising," he said, her cautious tone piquing his curiosity.

"They were thanking me for finding Rachel. All I wanted to do was yell at them, tell them that they made things worse with their witch hunt. I didn't," she added, giving him a warning look over her shoulder. "I was professional."

"I never doubted you."

"Humph," she grunted when he began massaging the tension from her muscles. "Maybe you should. It was so damn tempting."

"Don't do anything to risk your position at the lab, Sara. Not for me. That's not open for discussion."

She eyed him for a long moment, making him wonder if he had just initiated their first lovers' spat, but she just turned her head away wearily. Her reaction was more cutting than any angry retort. This case had drained her completely, and his inaction early on contributed to it.

"I meant what I said earlier," Grissom said, gently turning her around to face him. He cupped her face, lifting her head and waiting until she met his gaze. "This wasn't your fault. I didn't pull you from the case because I thought you were impartial. Honey, I'm sorry I didn't trust your judgment on this, but I would have pulled it from any other CSI given the lack of evidence."

Sara bobbed her head in response, not trusting her voice. He'd allowed his mask to slip, to let her see his concern. She loved Grissom, but she wasn't blind to his emotional isolation. The magnitude of his opening up wasn't lost on her.

She quickly closed the short distance between their bodies, her arms wrapped around his neck. Burying her head against his, she missed his jaw opening and shutting in bewilderment before he drew her in even closer. When the tears threatened to start, she stepped back, her hand rubbing over her eyes.

Waiting until she'd regained her composure, Grissom slid his hands down to her elbows, gently escorting her to the sofa. They sat facing each other, his arms wrapped loosely around her. Sara settled close, letting out a small sigh as her head rested against his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, hoping it would help her unwind.

"We're still trying to piece together what happened. Warrick and Nick found her in an old cabin out near Boulder City. She … it was bad."

Leaning forward, he dropped a kiss on her forehead, prompting her to run her fingers over his beard.

"Rachel was beaten, badly. Blood was everywhere. Probably from the head injuries. She was tied to a chair when they beat her. The marks are consistent with the broken tripod leg nearby."

"Tripod? A video ransom note?"

"That's what it looks like. There were pages from a script there. But we think she was beaten before it was made."

"That's logical. If they had made it, they would have sent it to the Kenyons to show she was safe," he said, his brow wrinkled in thought. "That wouldn't have worked after the beatings, but why didn't they send another type of note? She was still alive."

"With her injuries, she was probably knocked out. And the way her head was bleeding, he probably panicked, thought he killed her. He drove off, wrecked her car. The guys found the wreck site not far from the cabin," she said. "We don't know what set him off, but we're thinking it was Malco since it was his blood in Rachel's car."

"Which is why he was killed," Grissom picked up. "Not only did he ruin their plans, but he left his blood in the car. That linked him to the crime. He can be traced back to the third kidnapper. Malco's prints are on file somewhere, so he made sure to take his hands when he killed him."

"After Brass and I talked to Brian Wilcox, he panicked and started calling that pay phone by the auto body shop. He's dead, too, and his place torched."

"So the third kidnapper wanted to get rid of anything, or anyone, that connected him to the crime."

Sara made a sound of agreement, shifting to a more comfortable position.

"I still don't understand why this third partner never sent a ransom note," he said. "Rachel didn't stay alive by herself in a cabin in the desert for days. If nothing else, someone had to bring her water."

"She kept herself alive," Sara whispered as she closed her eyes. Years of working scenes gave CSIs the ability to recreate what happened. While it helped catch criminals, the skill came with a price – knowing exactly how someone suffered in their last hours.

"At some point, she regained consciousness. She was able to work one hand free, but she couldn't get the knots undone. The other arm and shoulder were broken. Definitely had a concussion."

Grissom didn't say anything, unsure what was appropriate. She'd never given him details of her childhood, and he'd never asked what exactly she had endured. More than anyone else on the team, she understood what an abuse victim went through. He ardently hoped she never lived through anything close to what she was describing.

Sara leaned into his hand when he cupped her cheek. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. "She worked the chair into the kitchen area. It took time. There were blood pools where she had to stop to rest. The chair either fell over, or she tipped it over. With her free hand, she was able to open the drain to the water heater. That gave her enough water to survive. At least long enough for her parents to say goodbye."

"Blood loss, concussion, dehydration," he said sadly. Any one of the conditions could be serious by itself.

"Yeah. Even if she lives, the doctors think she's going to lose her legs. Decreased blood circulation and infection."

"She's a fighter, Sara. What you just told me – those weren't the actions of someone ready to die. Don't give up hope."

"Damn it, Grissom!" she exclaimed, her morose shattered by the sudden burst of anger. "She came so far. Her life was such a mess, but she was making something of it. God knows what her mental state is going to be like now."

He sat there stunned when she suddenly hopped off the sofa, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. After one quick pace around the room, Sara gave her head a shake, flashing him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload on you."

"Let's go to bed." He began leading her towards her bedroom door when she stopped, dropping her head timidly.

"Grissom, look, I know I invited you to stay here, but…"

"So you can sleep," he interrupted, the corners of his lips twitching when she blushed. "You're exhausted."

"I don't know if I can sleep."

"You won't know until you try." Entering the room, Grissom let go of her elbow and rubbed the back of his neck hesitantly. He wanted to stay, to give what comfort that he could, but he also didn't want to make any missteps. "Do you want me to leave?"

"It's okay," she said, giving him a short, sheepish grin. "You don't have to hang around if you don't want to. You were expecting … more when you came over."

He lifted his head, fixing her with a level gaze. "That's not what I asked."

Sara tilted her head, watching him closely. Gradually, she walked to his side. "I'd like it if you stayed. I, it would be nice."

"Okay." He went back to her front door, where he'd left his overnight bag. Scratching his beard, he looked from the bedroom to the bathroom, finally opting to give her a bit of privacy.

Within ten minutes both had changed and were ready for bed. Grissom waited until Sara settled in close to him before draping his arm over her protectively. He kept a silent vigil over her until she drifted off to sleep, kissing her softly before letting himself rest.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Brass again demanded that the inhabitants open the door. When no answer came, he turned to the officers on either side of him, waiting for them to silently acknowledge their readiness. Next, he nodded to the nonplussed landlord to unlock the door, and the police charged into Jesse Patrick's rundown apartment.

They already raided the motorcycle supply store that fronted the extended Patrick family's criminal activities. Most of the family was still on the streets, but they already found narcotics, guns and counterfeited money. The store also stocked the same solvent used as the accelerant in burning Wilcox's home.

Despite Dvorak's protestations that Jesse Patrick wouldn't be involved, he had been missing for days and none of his relatives would say where he was. He did seem to be the exception to the family, attending community college, doing charity work, never missing an appointment with his parole officer. At this point, Brass wasn't sure if he was looking for an accomplice or another victim.

"Nice place," Catherine muttered once given the all-clear to begin her examination.

"All these years I thought you had taste. Turns out it was all bad."

Her eyebrow arched as she began opening drawers in the kitchen. "I've seen pictures of you from the seventies."

"You didn't have to go there," he said in mock-pain. His voice lowered as he moved in closer. "Have you heard from Grissom?"

"Talked to him earlier today. Why?"

"I don't like this."

"Hello," she said, reaching under the sink to pull out an unmarked bottle. Opening the lid, she snapped her head back quickly. "Smells like a solvent."

"Yeah, but there're lots of different kinds. Lots of uses for them. May not mean anything."

"He didn't use it for cleaning, that's for sure. And what don't you like?" she asked, putting the bottle into an evidence bag.

"This whole thing," he said, waving his hand distractedly. "Grissom, okay, he's a calm guy, level-headed. Normally, I'd say he wouldn't do anything stupid, but this whole deal? It gives me a bad feeling."

"I know," she said, drawing out her answer.

Her friendship with Grissom was under strain lately, but she did care for him. If nothing else, she owed him for the times he helped her. She'd been the one instrumental in keeping the exact nature of his suspension under wraps, even to the point of bluntly telling the sheriff that half the lab would walk out in support if the accusations against him were made public.

She had considered herself an expert on Grissom, as much as anyone other than his mother or a deity could be one, but his behavior left her wondering how much she really understood him. He had a thing for Sara for a long time, so his finally acting on it wasn't totally out of left field, and she really didn't see him as the type to use her for a mid-life fling.

But he had been deadly serious about quitting, and that was just incomprehensible. He was an fundamental part of the lab, like the sludge that passed for coffee, or the smell that hung around the morgue.

"I mean, what does the guy have besides work? His bugs?" Brass paused for a moment. "Okay, maybe he and the little guys would be happy together in a cocoon somewhere, but I can't see him just letting his rep get trashed."

"He said he's going to quit."

"No shit!"

"Don't tell anyone," she whispered conspiratorially. "I don't believe it. And I don't think it's going to be necessary."

"Catherine, what kind of secrets do you have?"

"All kinds," she purred, moving to the refrigerator. She rifled through it hurriedly, shaking her head when she closed the door. "And I thought Grissom was bad."

"Oh, man. That's not a secret I wanted to hear about," Brass said, giving a dramatic shutter.

She let out an irritated sigh, carefully verifying that no one else was in earshot. "Myers' investigation isn't legit. I called her office. She took personal leave before she visited the sheriff."

"So the governor's office never asked her to investigate," he said, his eyebrows going up in surprise. "She has chutzpah, lying about something like that."

"Tell me about."

"So, what's the deal? Why is Myers doing something so dumb? It has to be personal," he said. "But you already found out she and Grissom were never involved on any cases together."

"I don't know what's going on. Yet. I've got some feelers out."

"I'll tell you one thing – don't mention this to Sara. I'm surprised she hasn't ripped Myers a new one yet for getting her personnel files."

"I think she's been too busy with other things," Catherine said, amused by both his paternal attitude and her other secrets. She ignored his mystified expression, continuing her inspection of the room. It didn't take her long to find a box shoved in a crawlspace behind the rickety stove.

"Ugh," she said, pulling out a bunch of rags smelling of decaying food. Various roaches scurried away as she rummaged through their home.

"Not saving them for Grissom?"

"He can catch his own damn bugs. I prefer to kill them."

"Hey, that's an idea! He can open his own humane extermination business. Instead of killing bugs, he'll catch them and keep them alive. And then open a bug zoo. Double his profits."

Catherine shook her head vigorously as she continued sorting through the box. "Don't give him any ideas. Knowing him, he'd try it."

Brass chuckled softly and started to move to another room when she called out.

"Hold on," she said, rapidly snapping photos and pulling out items from the box. "Video camera. Foreign language dictionaries. And a book on developing secret codes."

"I'll put out an APB."

* * *

After setting the phone down, Sara headed back to the bedroom. She'd slept solidly, feeling refreshed and much more in control when she woke up. Not wanting to disturb Grissom's rest, she simply enjoyed his presence.

People could list all his shortcomings – real or imagined – but nothing changed what he had done for her. In his own way, he'd been there for her, putting her well-being ahead of his own desires.

It had taken a long time to reach this point, and she wasn't convinced that his interest wasn't at least partially a reaction to what was happening to his career. If he wanted to leave later, then she wouldn't try to stop him. But until that happened, she wasn't going to let her fears interfere with their relationship. She was going to love him to the best of her ability.

When he started to stir, she began to stroke him lightly, smiling salaciously when his eyes snapped open. She moved on top of him, relishing the warmth of his body, the security she felt with him, wanting to draw and give comfort.

He must have sensed her need, because he rolled them over, taking time to slowly arouse her before tenderly making love. Afterwards, he laid on top of her, his weight supported by his elbows and whispered snippets of sonnets into her ear. She returned his affections, holding him close and kissing him between lines. It wasn't until the phone started to ring that she left their personal sanctuary.

Walking back into the bedroom, she was equally aware that Grissom's pajama top left much of her anatomy bare, and that he was watching keenly. The covers came up to his belly, and he was propped up to get a better view. His attention was flattering, even if the intensity was slightly overwhelming.

"You are so randy," Sara teased as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"It's human nature to admire beauty."

"Thanks," she said, rolling her eyes when she realized she was blushing. "I started some coffee."

"Was that the lab?" he asked, sitting up and arranging the pillows against the headboard.

"Wrong number actually."

"Why don't you get some more sleep? You have time for a nap before you can head into work."

"I've already slept more than I normally do."

"You could still come back to bed," Grissom suggested, lifting the covers and waggling his eyebrows. "If you don't mind a dirty, old man."

"I'd say more musky than dirty," she said, watching in amazement as his eyes followed her every movement as she slipped the nightshirt off and slid under the covers. "And you're not old. Randy, yeah, but not old."

"I'm not young."

"You're only as old as you think."

"In that case, I'm ageless."

"Ageless, mindless. So, you have lost your mind."

"It's hard to think rationally when you're naked in my arms."

"Ahh, hormonal, then."

"Not really. That went with the youth," Grissom said wistfully. Her tone was joking, but he suspected there was an undercurrent of worry behind her comments. He distractedly watched as his finger traced the line of her collarbone. “What do you think I need? Professionally."

"I'm not following you."

"You think I'll regret leaving the lab," he said, licking his lips. "I don't. I'm not crazy about the circumstances, but I'm okay with leaving the lab."

"You shouldn't have to," she began hotly, stopping when he moved his finger to her lips in a shushing movement.

"Despite what people think, I never intended to have my desiccated body found under a stack of paperwork. Las Vegas wasn't my first job, and I never thought it would be my last."

"How can you just walk away from such a big part of your life?"

"That brings us back to my question. What do you think I left undone?" he asked, shifting so he was looking down on her and smiled reassuringly. "I've done all I ever wanted to do with my career. Look, I don't want to be promoted any higher. Can you see me doing Ecklie's job?"

"Scary thought," she quipped.

He mock-pouted, but it turned to a smile when she stroked his whiskers. "I've trained some remarkable people. The lab is number two in the country. The only one better is the FBI's, and we'll never approach its resources or manpower. I helped get it there."

"Most people would say you did more than help."

"My reputation is solid. I'm asked to assist in cases worldwide. People pay to hear my lectures. You might remember, but I've also taught."

"I know, but it can't be easy."

"I never said it was," he admitted grudgingly. "There were cases that I'll always wish that I solved, but we both know what the odds of solving a cold case are." Grissom stopped suddenly, letting out an annoyed huff. "I didn't mean your case, I ..."

"It's okay. I understood. And I know this case may never be solved. We don't have the evidence."

"Something led you to the cabin."

"A tip. The Kenyons raised the reward to a million dollars. That brought in a lot of new calls."

"Don't you think that would be an obvious place to start?" Grissom asked, unable to understand why she hadn't thought of it.

"I don't think so. The tip came from a woman who's mentally disabled. She can't live on her own. There's no way she could have been our mastermind."

"Not likely," he agreed. "How did she know anything about this?"

"She rode along when her cousin went on some errands, saw Rachel's car drive by. She didn't come forward until she told the story to a family friend."

"Oh," he replied, suddenly distracted by the sight of her bare breasts when she sat upright. It took him a moment to realize that she was lost in thought, her eyes focused on the far wall.

"What is it?" he asked, recognizing her look. Some idea just came to her.

Sara turned to him with a quizzical expression. "Let's take a road trip."

_TBC_


	19. Chapter 19

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary: **When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.**  
A/N: **This is turning into another story that won't end. Honestly, it wasn't going to be this long when I started, but I sort of forgot the details of how it was going to end originally. I have to make up a new ending as I go along. Thanks to csipal for looking this chapter over. And a big thanks to all who sent their well wishes.**  
Rating: **PG-13.**  
Disclaimer: **The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains, and I still have nothing to do with this show.

* * *

**Chapter 19**

"This is getting out of hand," Brass muttered miserably to Catherine after closing his cell phone. "Jesse Patrick did not just vanish from the face of the planet. There's not a sign of him anywhere."

"I don't know. They planned this thing out carefully. Wouldn't be surprised if they had a fallback position in case things went bad," she answered, leaning against the side of his unmarked car. After draining her coffee, she rolled her shoulders. "That's assuming he's our guy."

"Big coincidence if he isn't. He was a jail buddy of Brian Wilcox. Me? I don't like big coincidences."

"We better find him soon. There are too many other cases, and the lab was shorthanded before Grissom's, uh," she hesitated as a group of firemen passed them.

"Leave?"

"Right. Now that Rachel's been found, the department won't be able to focus so many resources on just her case."

"How's she doing?"

Catherine shrugged. "She's still alive. That's something."

The fire marshal gave them to permission to enter the remains of the building, and they followed as David and his assistant carried the gurney. Making their way to the back room, they found a burnt body sprawled by the bedroom window.

"Looks like he was trying to get out. In all probability, he died from smoke inhalation. Most fire victims die before the flames reach them," David noted.

"Thank God for small favors," Catherine muttered, grimacing as she began taking photos. Examining the area professionally, she sat back on her heels and gave her head a sad shake. "This wasn't an accident. Look at those burn patterns. Definitely arson."

Brass grunted as he reached for his ringing phone, immediately making a face after stating his name.

"Captain Brass is away at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep," he said in a falsetto. "Beeeeeep! Voicemail is full. Please call later."

"Subtle," she chuckled.

"It's that Darby chick from the paper. She keeps calling me, and not for a date."

"Imagine that."

"Ha, ha. I can see tomorrow's headline – 'Mentally disabled girl cracks case for police.' They've been milking this story, trying to make the department look bad."

"Has she asked about … you know?"

David looked up in confusion momentarily, but then discreetly went back to work. Brass walked closer to her side, with his back to the coroner's crew.

"No."

"Good. You know they would be running with that if they had heard anything," Catherine said. They couldn't keep the accusations against Grissom concealed forever. If nothing else, someone was eventually going to notice that he wasn't at any scenes. She trusted David, but there were plenty of other people around, so she kept her tone low. "If the press gets a hold of that, it'll follow him forever."

Brass grunted and watched as David continued his examination of body. Hearing a shifting sound, he glanced toward the door.

Greg picked his way through the debris carefully, concentrating on his steps. It wasn't just to preserve potential evidence; he didn't want to think about the smell. He had limited experience with arson cases, and the carnage took some getting used to. Walking to where the others hunched over the body, he tried not to think that the charred lump there was once human.

"I bring news," he said, swallowing bile frantically.

"Good, bad or other?" Catherine asked.

"All of the above."

"Do share," Brass said, stepping away with a scowl.

"First, the epithelials we found in Rachel's wounds are a match to John Malco."

"That matches our theory about what happened," she said, using tweezers to pluck melted fibers from the floor.

"Yeah, and I pulled the land records. The cabin where we found Rachel? It belonged to one Trucker Patrick."

"Related to Jesse?" she asked.

"His uncle. Trucker – and that is his real, given name – had quite a record as a forger. He's been out of prison for a while, but he was suspected as being the limited brains behind the Patrick family."

"Where is he now?" Brass demanded harshly. He'd been tracking the extended family, but with so many members, he hadn't had time to look up all their records. He wasn't upset with Greg for finding the information, but their prime suspect was missing, so he gave him an apologetic shrug.

"Dead."

"Another body," Catherine said, wrinkling her face as David bagged the remains and carried them away.

"At least he died of natural causes. Heart attack on his sixth trip through the breakfast buffet at the Tropicana two months ago."

"That's why I always stop after five," Brass deadpanned. "Find anything else out?"

"Yeah. Get this. Trucker had a son with anger management problems. He's been in and out of jail for years, mainly for beating up women," Greg said, pausing for effect. "His name is Malcolm John Patrick."

"Our John Malco?" Catherine asked, one corner of her mouth curving upwards.

"Doc's trying to verify that now. He tracked down Malcolm's medical records from prison."

"So, Trucker forged the identities they needed. Wilcox handled all the banking. After Trucker dies, they decide to go forward. Malco was the muscle. Was Jesse part of it from the beginning or did they bring him in for their third?" she mused aloud.

"How come Malco wasn't in the system?" Brass asked.

"He was never arrested locally. It was always in states that don't take part in CODIS. What about Jesse Patrick? Found him yet?"

Brass let out a weary sigh, dropping his eyes to where they found Victor Dvorak's body. Part of him was upset that he hadn't taken the mechanic's pleas more seriously, but the rest of his mind questioned how the Patrick family had gotten to him so quickly. Or how they had known he was the one to direct the police to them.

"No. His family won't say where he is. And considering what happens to people who do talk to us, I wouldn't count on anyone else coming forward."

* * *

"Your coffee isn't _that_ bad," Grissom said, trying his best to sound joking and not show his annoyance. When Sara turned to him, he lifted the travel mug and continued. "We didn't need to drive all the way out here to get something else to drink."

After she bolted out of bed earlier, all Sara said was that she was taking him out to dinner. He hadn't questioned her, merely showered and dressed as quickly as she did. Now he realized she had set him up. They had no business being at the gas station where the eyewitness saw Rachel.

Sara gave him a lopsided grin before moving to the vending machines. A line of them ran along the gas station's side wall. Letting out an aggrieved sound, he walked to her as she studied the first soda machine.

She always drew out his protective side, a feeling that had grown stronger over time. It was running full-strength now, but in conflicting directions. He wanted to help her with this case, knowing it was more likely to haunt her if left unsolved. But this was dangerous; he wasn't supposed to be near the case, and being with her only added to the problem. Normally, he didn't care about office politics, but Grissom didn't want to drag her down with him.

Despite his unease, he cocked his head as she methodically went to each machine, examining it closely before standing up and scanning the area. She was on the trail of something.

Closing the distance between them, he mimicked her actions, hoping for some insight into her behavior. At first, he thought she was checking to see if there were security cameras, but he saw no signs of any. She moved back to the first machine, bending her knees. They'd yet to find the real identity of Malco; maybe she thought he'd have stopped there at some point, leaving a clue.

"You can't print that," he said, his voice low as he leaned close. "Even if you could isolate a usable fingerprint, you're not on duty."

"I wasn't planning on printing it," she replied absentmindedly, walking around the corner and heading to the other side of the building.

The gas station was relatively large, and with no others in the immediate area, was doing a brisk business. With a major crime scene nearby, he didn't want them spotted by the media or any deputies.

"We shouldn't even be here," he whispered, resting his hand on her elbow to stop her progress.

"Why not? It's a public place. I needed gas."

"The pumps are that way. And why this particular gas station?"

His sarcasm didn't seem to bother her, and she started walking again. "Because we're heading to a shop up the road that makes great vegetarian subs. I don't see any other gas stations around."

"Sara," he started, unable to hide his impatience. The last thing he wanted was to fight, but this was too important to ignore.

"I'm serious. I didn't get a chance to stop at the store on the way home this morning. I have some cereal in the cupboard, but the milk probably out-grosses any of your experiments."

"You know what I mean. You could lose your job if we're caught out here."

That actually caused her to stop. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she rested with one foot in front of the other. Grissom started to feel like one of his bugs before he pinned it.

"That didn't bother you before," she finally pointed out. "When you called, came to the lab."

"I was wrong. I try to learn from my mistakes."

"That's good."

Her smile soothed any harshness to her reply, and he smiled gently in return. He stepped closer, wanting to draw her to him, but he was very aware of the numerous other people in the area.

"I know I made mistakes. Don't use me for a role model. Not in this," he said, holding his hands out to indicate the gas station. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Shut up."

At the command, Grissom's head snapped back, blinking in surprise as she started to walk away. Sara turned slightly to him, but her eyes twinkled. "You're the one who said it wasn't open for discussion, so we're not discussing it."

Letting out a pained groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I knew I was going to pay for that comment."

"And you still said it." She hesitated for a minute, her head dropping. "Besides, it's probably a moot point."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't know, do you?"

Grissom felt himself swallowing nervously. "No."

Sighing, she kept going. "Didn't think so. Don't worry about it. You'll figure it out eventually."

He watched for a moment before shaking his head and tagging along. The exchange left him slightly off-center, unsure of whether she was angry, teasing or some mixture of both.

Lost in his thoughts, Grissom stood silently as she went back to the soda machines, staring across the pavement as she moved to different locations. When a Denali pulled up to a pump, he inhaled sharply. Turning to Sara, he found her looking the other direction.

"Damn," he muttered, realizing he was in plain sight, lit from the gas station and the overhang above the pumps. The odds of someone from the lab believing he was here coincidentally were slim. Add Sara to the equation, and she was going to get in serious trouble.

Slowly, a smile grew as he saw Warrick walking to the far edge of the lot while Nick moved to the pump. It had been too long since he had seen them, and he was reminded how much he missed his team. They saw each other in the halls, occasionally worked cases together, but it wasn't the same.

If there was anything close to a silver lining to the team splitting, it was that it made him appreciate the others more. Catherine had always told him they were his makeshift family, but it wasn't until he lost them that he really understood what she meant. He did care about them, even if expressing that feeling wasn't natural for him. For too long, he'd taken them for granted.

He'd taken too many things for granted.

Glancing over his shoulder, he heart warmed as he watched Sara continue her examination, still unaware that their excursion was discovered. Grissom was convinced that Ecklie split the team, at least in part, to hurt him. It had, deeply, in many ways.

But the irony was it meant he spent more time with Sara, giving them the chance to repair their damaged friendship. He had come to realize that she wouldn't always be there, and that made him question why he had stayed away. There was a risk of unhappiness if things didn't work out, but he certainly wasn't happy apart. That probably was the first, tiny crumble in the walls he'd built between them.

Keeping his smile in check, he turned around in time to see Warrick pull out his cell phone before walking out of view. After setting the pump nozzle in the tank, Nick looked up and saw him.

"I knew you wouldn't leave a big case!" Nick drew out excitedly as he dashed over. "What's the matter? Didn't want us in your townhouse this time?"

"I'm redecorating."

Nick stopped short. That was something he never imagined hearing from his stoic boss. "You. Are?"

"Yes," Grissom answered earnestly.

"Uh, huh."

"I already started in the living room. And bought plants. Who knows, maybe I'll retile the bathroom."

"But you're still working this," Nick insisted. He had to be joking. There was no way he'd let something like a directive from a bureaucratic keep him from working a big case. "I knew you wouldn't let whatever got in the sheriff's crawl keep you from this. I knew it."

The mug in Grissom's hand paused partway to his mouth, and he looked thoughtfully. "'Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?'"

"Huh?"

He leaned closer and whispered. "I'm not here."

"You're not?" Nicked tried to inconspicuously sniff the mug, strongly doubting that it contained just coffee. Being drunk was a better explanation than Grissom finally losing his grip on reality.

"No. I'm a figment of your imagination."

"Oo-kay. Sara, are you a figment of my imagination?" he called out as she joined them.

She'd heard the tail end of the conversation. While she was glad Grissom hadn't announced his intention to quit, his teasing of Nick probably wasn't helping; he looked seriously confused. Warrick was nearing, and she knew they would both want answers. She decided it was time to draw attention away from Grissom.

"Guys, how many people are in that car that just drove by?" she asked urgently. All three men followed her pointed finger, and they quickly spread out.

"Whoa," Warrick said, as he closed the cell phone.

"You can't tell," Nick said slowly, walking to a nearby spot and craning his head in an attempt to get a better view.

The gas station was on a large lot, but it was much longer than wide. Besides the three rows of pumps, there were parking spots in front of the building. From the area by the soda machines, the corner of the building, the pumps and the various vehicles obscured the road.

"Rachel was abducted at night, and there wasn't full moon. I was curious how your witness was able to see what happened in a moving car from a distance," Sara explained. "I went all around this lot. These are the only soda machines. If she was standing here…"

"There's no way Tammy Franks saw Malco and Wilcox with Rachel," Warrick finished.

They went in different directions, checking the view from various locations in case Tammy had moved away from the machines. The area under the pumps was well lit, but the pool of illumination actually made it harder to see into the darkness beyond.

"I have twenty-twenty vision, and I had to go practically to the shoulder to make out what was going on," Nick said.

"No way they'd let her near there. The entrance off the road is too narrow, to easy for her to get hit," Warrick added.

"How disabled was the eyewitness?" Grissom asked suddenly.

"I don't know. Pretty bad, I guess. Are you thinking she had something to do with this?" Nick asked disbelievingly.

"I want to know if the missing kidnapper used her to get the reward," he answered.

_TBC _


	20. Chapter 20

**Quiet Desperation  
****Summary**: When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N**: The end is near … the end is near! Repent while you have time! Whoops, I got a little carried away there. Not a lot left to tell with this story, so just ignore the four guys on horses. Trust me, they aren't as cool as they look.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Disclaimer:** I think disclaimers are silly. Of course I have nothing to do with the show. If I had my hands on that cash cow, I wouldn't be doing this for free.

* * *

**Chapter 20 **

Over Grissom's mild protestations, Sara paid for their dinner, flashing him an amused grin as he took the tray of food with a chivalrous pout. The dining area was virtually empty, but he pointedly directed her to an isolated corner, far from the windows. She kept her humor in check as he scanned the parking lot from the last window before finally stopping at a plastic table.

Life taught her at an early age that she had to rely on herself, and she considered herself independent. Still Grissom's obvious protectiveness touched her, even if he was probably overdoing it; the sub shop was located well away from the crime scene, and the probability of someone spotting them was slim.

So were the odds of running into the guys at the gas station, and she knew he wasn't happy about that. Watching him across the table, she tried to decipher his mood. He wasn't talkative by nature, so it was hard to tell if his silence now was an indication of anything.

_That's probably something you should know about your lover_, she thought. She loved him, wanted to be with him, but she knew they had to be cautious. After years of stagnation, they were rushing down emotional rapids. The ride was thrilling, but the course was uncharted, and she didn't want to crash.

_He looks so tired. I'll be the first to admit he isn't the perfect boss, but this is bogus. He doesn't deserve this bullshit._

Sara watched him from over the top of her cup of soda, trying to think of the best way to help him. He already made it clear that he didn't want her getting involved, so she was keeping her indignation in check. But the tension in his posture showed the stress was getting to him.

His wary expression as he checked out his dinner was amusing, though.

Picking up a french fry, he tasted it tentatively before taking a full bite. Despite its décor, the rundown shop actually had remarkably good food. Over the years, he'd discovered numerous such surprises, and he was curious how she found this one. It would make for an interesting dinner conversation, but he was too preoccupied with Sara's comments at the gas station to bring it up. He was coming to the conclusion that his happiness was tied to hers, and something had her upset.

Lost in his own musings, he didn't notice when her expression changed from mild amusement to puzzlement to finally rest on concern.

"You're upset," she said.

Grissom looked up in surprise, a french fry partway to his mouth. Setting it down, his brow furrowed as he worked through her words. Anger, at least at her, was the farthest thing from his mind.

"Because you paid?" he finally asked, wondering if he had inadvertently insulted her by offering to cover the bill.

"No, that I brought us here. Well, to the gas station first."

"I don't think it was the wisest thing you've ever done," he admitted, making sure his hand rubbed against hers as he reached for the salt. "But I'm not angry."

Sara gave him a relieved grin. "Good. I wanted to check it out, but there's a lot of work in the lab. It would take a while to drive out, and I'm maxed out on overtime…"

"So you figured you'd go when you're not on the clock, freeing you up to concentrate on the other evidence."

"Right. And I didn't want to just kick you out after…," she said, pausing at his nervous look. Privacy was a trait they shared, but his reaction was almost comical given that they were the only patrons there. "After you, uh, were so good. To me. So very good."

Grissom tried to give her a disproving glare, but he was certain his blush ruined the effect. Her teasing did help ease his concerns, but lack of communication caused too many problems for them in the past.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked softly.

It was Sara's turn to be surprised, blinking as she tilted her head. Slowly, her lips curled slightly. "If I was, I think you would know."

"But I don't know," he said, his shoulders dropping in an irritated defeat.

"It's not that hard to figure out. I've never been able to keep my temper under control. You've been on the receiving end before," she said slowly, watching as he fiddled with a napkin. "Is something else bothering you?"

"Yes."

Her head nodded of its own accord as he confirmed her suspicions. It didn't bring her any closer to understanding what was wrong. "Do you want to tell me? It's okay if you don't, but you can always talk to me if you need to."

"I can't figure it out," he finally sighed, giving an apologetic shrug. "You said that I would, but I'm lost."

"I'm right there with you."

Grissom stared at her over the top of his glasses. "I don't understand why you're not worried about protecting your job. Did I do something to get you in trouble? I'll fix it if I can."

"No, it's not that," she said. "I told you not to worry about it."

When Grissom's hand brushed against hers again, she looked up to find him staring intently. "Anything that bothers you is going to concern me."

His affectionate admission made her eyes light up, and she returned the pressure on his hand. Most people considered the gesture trivial, but it was significant coming from him, especially in a public location.

As much as she believed that they'd make a good couple, she never expected Grissom to be anything other than what he was. But part of who he was included a gentle soul, and it showed itself in the little things he was doing to ease her mind. That convinced her that her choice had been right, even if it didn't make it any less painful.

The way she fidgeted caused him lean forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Do you want to tell me? It's okay if you don't, but you can always talk to me if you need to," he said, keeping his tone light as he repeated her words.

Sara's lip curled, but the humor never made it to her eyes. She watched him intently for a moment before letting out a sigh and rolling her shoulders. "There's not exactly a big market for forensic entomologists in Vegas," she began matter-of-factly.

"No."

"You're going to have to move to get another job," she said, pausing significantly. "You knew that. When I asked if you were moving, you said not yet."

"I think I said it wasn't necessary at this point."

"The result's the same, isn't it?"

"How so?" he asked curiously.

"Even if I thought we could make a long-distance relationship work at this stage, it's not something I want to try," she said quietly, breaking eye contact to stare at her hands. Gathering her resolve, Sara regarded him closely. "Either I move too, or we have to end this. That's not a choice for me."

Grissom shifted uneasily in his seat. The truth was he hadn't thought that far in advance. Deciding to resign had been hard enough, and he hadn't wanted to dwell on having to change careers. Instead, he'd focused on their relationship. He never considered what implications his choice would have on her. But she had, and already decided that she was willing to make a painful sacrifice.

"Oh," he said after a long moment. "You'd do that for me?"

Sara gave her head a slight shake as she looked around the room. Facing him, she kept her voice gentle and smiled sadly. "Griss, I left everything I had in San Francisco when you called, and that was on the chance of something happening between us. I'm not going to risk throwing it away now that we've started."

He opened his mouth as he tried to think of a response. It wasn't the first time she'd told him this, but the revelation was just as shocking the second time around. The thought that she'd totally rearrange her life for him was humbling; that she'd do it twice was staggering.

Sara watched as he struggled to respond. His doubts were obvious, but she didn't sense that he thought she was lying. Reaching across the table, she rested her hands on his. When he stared with an overwhelmed look, she nodded reassuringly.

Grissom never knew how long they spent sitting like that. What he had done to deserve such devotion eluded him, but he silently swore to do whatever it took to keep it.

A loud noise caused him to start, pulling his hands away and looking over her shoulder to see what was going on. Realizing that it was a noisy group of teenagers entering, he relaxed and shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry."

"I don't think we're going to run into anyone here," she noted. "The guys aren't going to say anything about seeing us. But I think you really confused Nick. Who were you quoting?"

"William Blake," he answered, flashing her a thankful smile for changing the subject. As touching as her statement was, it wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in a public location, no matter how deserted.

"No wonder he was lost. A bit obscure."

Grissom looked up, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I'm saving the Shakespeare for _other_ occasions," he said, enjoying himself when she started to blush.

"That was a nice touch," she said. None of her previous lovers had ever recited poetry to her, certainly not as part of their lovemaking. "But why do I think you're going to use something about Lady Macbeth next time around?"

"I was thinking of something from _The Taming of the Shrew_," he deadpanned, easily catching the french fry she tossed at him. "Definitely."

The banter helped ease the tension that had developed, and they kept their conversation light as they finished their dinner. Once in the car, Sara fell silent. From the passenger's seat, he watched her keenly.

"Sorry. I was thinking," she said when she noticed his attention. "This case. It makes me feel stupid. The guy is always one step ahead of us."

"You've done excellent work," he said honestly.

"Thanks. I know more than a third of murders are never solved, but I want to get this guy. For what he did to Rachel, for the three people he killed."

"Three people?"

"I was talking to Warrick back at the station. The auto body shop owner was killed after he talked to Brass," she said, bringing him up to speed on the latest developments as she headed towards her apartment. Once she pulled beside his car, she turned to him with a wicked grin. "Too public?"

"For what?"

"For a display of affection."

"With our luck, yes," he said in mock-disappointment, sliding his hand to her knee and squeezing it discreetly. "Is there anything I can do to help with the case?"

"I don't think so. Appreciate the offer, though," Sara answered. "Do you want to stay here?"

"I'm going to start work on my kitchen. Drawback of an open floor plan," he said when she glanced at him quizzically. "It looks dingy now compared to the living room."

"Save some of the work. I'm off the day after tomorrow. I'll have the time to help you."

"You could spend the time resting."

Sara smiled at his caring tone. "I like to paint. It's relaxing. We can go to bed later," she said innocently. "And then sleep after that."

"You're incorrigible," Grissom chuckled.

"Probably. Say, why don't you leave your stuff here? Come over when I get off of work. You may as well stay until you're done painting, and the fumes clear out."

"If you don't mind. I'll bring breakfast."

She grinned at his insistence. "Okay. See you after shift."

Not wanting to risk a kiss in public, he settled on rubbing his hand over her knee before getting out. Standing there, his shoulders drooped as she drove away. He always knew that he'd cherish her if they became involved, but he never dreamt, never hoped, that she would feel as strongly. The swirl of emotions was confusing him, but getting into his car, one thought stood out: he was going to do whatever he could to keep her happy.

* * *

"I tell ya, man, Grissom was acting weird," Nick insisted as he leaned back into the Denali's seat. 

Warrick glanced to the side skeptically. "You're talking about Grissom. It'd be weird if he wasn't acting weird."

He gave a shrug of acknowledgement, but he also kept rubbing his chin doubtfully. "You didn't talk to him. Something is up."

"He's not supposed to be working the case, and Sara's maxed out on overtime. Neither one of them should have been there. Griss wanted to make sure we didn't tell anyone we saw them," Warrick explained calmly.

"That's my point! When Mobley suspended him, it wasn't a secret. We all knew he was still working on the case."

"Well, yeah. He didn't have a choice. We crashed his house that time."

"He's redecorating now," Nick said in a singsong voice. "He's even bought plants."

"What?" Warrick gave his head a shake. For some reason the thought of Grissom changing even something as basic as a wall color seemed hard to comprehend, but eventually everyone repainted or bought new furniture, a fact he shared with Nick.

"Okay, but don't you think it's weird that he's working with Sara on this but not with us?"

"It was her case. He pulled her off of it. Maybe he feels bad about it."

"No, it's more than that," Nick said firmly. He didn't have the same science background as the other team members, but he was better at reading people than most of them. Not that he'd claim to be able to read Grissom, but his behavior was definitely off.

"Yeah, but he's been suspended. You know that has to be pissing him off. Who knows what's going on in his mind when he's not upset?"

"This wasn't just upset. This was, was," Nick repeated, struggling to find a way of explaining how differently he'd been acting. "Okay, imagine that Greg got a haircut and started wearing a suit and tie to work every day. What would you think?"

"I'd think he was trying to impress a girl who likes guys who wear suits," Warrick answered dryly as he pulled up to a professional complex with one office lit.

Nick let out a huff but chuckled with him. "Okay, but I don't think Grissom's trying to impress a girl."

Warrick nodded, and both men shifted in their seats. No one in the lab openly talked about Grissom and Sara; their attraction had been evident to almost everyone. Even Greg eventually had enough things dropped on him to learn not to flirt with her when Grissom was holding heavy objects. But it was also clear that things weren't always well between them. Both valued their privacy, something their friends respected and so refrained from becoming involved.

Nick began to tap his fingers as he started to form a theory. "He was working with Sara. She knows what's going on with his suspension. It's making her mad. The sheriff interviewed her after Mrs. Kenyon filed her complaint."

"I know," Warrick said uneasily. He'd already gone down this route. "It's no secret that they …have a history."

"That attorney even tried to make Sara look unprofessional that one time."

"Right. If someone were to imply that Grissom had acted inappropriately," he said, slapping his hand on the steering wheel.

"That type of insinuation would follow him forever."

"No wonder Sara was pissed," Warrick said.

"And why they're trying to keep this quiet," Nick added, his temper rising. "Everyone looks bad if that gets out. It makes the lab seem unprofessional. Grissom is toast. Sara looks like a, a, well, like she slept her way into the job. Doesn't matter that none of it's true."

"Both of them have solid reps. People won't believe it."

"I don't know. When me and Sara were up for that promotion, people told me that she was a shoe-in 'cause of her relationship with Grissom."

"Damn!" Warrick exclaimed. "Okay, let's not panic. If there is a charge against Grissom, it's not formal. We'd know if a formal investigation was going on."

"Everyone would know. They couldn't keep that from the media."

"The Kenyons wanted more attention for Rachel's case. The sooner it's wrapped up, the better the odds that they'll drop their complaint."

"I hope you're right, man," Nick said.

When they entered the building a fuming portly black man immediately greeted them.

"I have office hours for a reason," Philip Kane told them, yawning deeply as he waved them to seats. "And I have a wife, who is now in bed alone."

"Better than with someone else," Nick joked, covering his laugh with a cough when Kane glared at him.

Taking the file from them, the forensic psychiatrist's ire evaporated as he read their notes. "Interesting. And there's no way she could have seen what she told the police?"

"It's impossible. You can't see the road from the gas station well enough to make things out in that detail," Warrick said.

"Doc, there's no way she could have been faking how severe her disability is, could she?"

"Unlikely," Kane agreed. "Even if she could have pulled it off for all those years, her disability resulted from an accident. I can't believe there hasn't been at least one brain scan to determine the extent of the injury. That can't be faked."

"Well, she didn't think this plan up herself," Warrick said. "She's lying for someone else."

"Or somebody convinced her that she did see Rachel's car," Nick added.

"In theory, both are possibilities. Without more information on her, I can't make a definitive call," Kane said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "But I think you're overlooking another explanation."

"What?" Nick asked.

"She's confused. Think about it. How reliable are four-, five-, six-year-old witnesses? Despite her age, she's operating on a similar level."

"But she led us to Rachel," Warrick said. "What are the odds of that?"

Kane shrugged. "Maybe she actually saw the car in the parking lot of the gas station. Maybe they passed it on the road or saw it earlier in the day. Did she specifically tell you what road the car turned on?"

"No," Nick admitted, but he wasn't convinced.

"It's something to consider, even if it's not likely," Kane said, getting up and nodding towards the door. "I can tell you one thing: if someone is using her, it's probably someone close to her. It's someone Tammy would trust."

* * *

Sara sat up straight and stretched her tense muscles when Greg came into the lab. She'd spent hours piecing together burnt pieces found in Dvorak's home, looking for any type of clue. "Hey, Greggo. What's up?" 

"My CSI-sense is a-tingling."

"You know where the bathroom is," she teased.

"What a comedian! Seriously," he said, leaning his arms on the workbench. "When do you know that you can trust your instincts?"

"It's not like there's a timetable. Why?"

"The evidence I'm looking over? It's not making much sense. I've been going over the box of stuff Catherine pulled from Patrick's apartment."

"What's standing out?" she asked, hoping to help him pinpoint the source of his unease. She didn't know if it came from a lack of experience, or if he was starting to develop a feel for what was unusual.

"All of it?"

"Can you be a little more specific?" she laughed.

"Okay, the stuff she found all points to the case. Accelerant, books, the whole works."

"And you think it's too obvious?"

"Not that so much," Greg answered. "It's… there're no fingerprints on anything, not even the box. And the other crap that was in the box? The stuff that wasn't used in the kidnapping? None of it has any prints on it. I can see it with the incriminating stuff, but an old toothbrush?"

"They were careful all the way through the crime," she pointed out. "They wiped down the car, had a way to dispose of it. It was well thought out."

"That's the other thing. Have you seen the records from the Patricks? We're not exactly talking about the Corleone family here. How did they go from bad counterfeiting and carjacking to masterminding a kidnapping using international bank accounts?"

"Most criminals work their way up. They don't start with the major jobs."

"So, you're saying I should keep my a-tingling to myself."

"No," Sara said, leaning back to give him a friendly smile. "Cath and I were talking about the same thing earlier. We're not sure if Jesse Patrick is the missing kidnapper, or maybe there's someone else involved. Good job."

"Really?" he asked, beaming under her praise.

"Don't let it go to your head. I'm about done with this. Need a hand with your evidence?"

"Yeah, but you can wait until you're done with your pizza."

"My pizza?" she repeated slowly.

"I took a cup of the good stuff up to Judy, and the guy delivered it while I was there."

"Oh. Who paid?"

"It was already paid for," Greg said, looking at her in confusion.

Realizing Grissom must have sent it, Sara fought down a blush as she headed out of the lab. She didn't know why she was surprised. He had tried to buy her a carryout lunch before they left the sub shop. Her lips twitched at the memory; he pointed out that she never left the lab to buy lunch when she was maxed out on overtime, preferring to spend the time working. The fact that he'd noticed her habits was a pleasant surprise.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Greg fall in beside her. Darting her eyes to the side, she swore silently. "I meant who covered the tip?"

"He didn't expect one. Must have added it to the charge. Since when did you start charging food, Miss It's Dumb To Charge Perishable Items?"

"What's up with you and Judy? Something I need to know about?" Sara asked with a broad grin. As she expected, that caused him to change the subject quickly.

"No! She's a friend. Besides, it's always smart to stay on the good side of the receptionist," he said conspiratorially. "They know everything that's going on. Good source for inside info."

"I never imagined you as a gossip," she said. "Care to join me?"

"Sure. What type of pizza did you order?"

Sara stopped for a microsecond, but recovered quickly. She gave him a broad grin. "It's a surprise."

* * *

"What do you mean you don't know where she is?" Brass demanded harshly. 

"This is a group home, not a prison," the director answered shortly, clasping her robe tightly around her. Leading him into an office, she started a pot of coffee. "Besides, Tammy isn't even a full-time client."

"Does she have a regular schedule?"

"Not too regular," she answered. "Most of our work is geared to teaching the disabled to live on their own. Tammy will never be self-reliant. She comes mainly for the socialization and for some arts and crafts. She really enjoys making things."

"Do the same people work with her when she comes?"

"Whenever possible."

"I'll need a list of anyone who has contact with her."

"Of course. Has something happened to Tammy?"

"I want to make sure nothing does," Brass answered. "But I need to find her."

"Her parents died a few years ago. Her grandparents have legal custody of her, but she usually stays with another relative. She stays for a week or so at one place, then goes to another."

"What, they pass her around like a Christmas fruitcake?" he asked disapprovingly.

"No, no!" she corrected him quickly. "Her grandparents are, well, they're old. They can't really take care of her by themselves. And Tammy enjoys it. She loves her 'sleepovers'. It really is a close family."

Brass rubbed his forehead. "I'll also need a list of the people she might be with."

"I don't know if I can help you with that."

"This is important. I can get a warrant, but something could happen…"

"Oh, no! I'd tell you if I knew, but it's a large family, and her parents had a lot of friends. Tammy is a sweet woman, so there are plenty of people who help take care of her. I don't know all the people she stays with. I can give you the name of the aunt that usually brings her to and from the center when she comes."

Brass waited as she booted up the computer, sitting quietly until she turned back towards him. "Who told Tammy to talk to the police?"

"I did. Why?"

His eyebrow shot up. "Tell me about that."

"I don't understand…"

"Humor me," Brass said, giving her a faux smile.

"Her aunt dropped Tammy off for her art therapy class and came to see me. She said that her neighbor had been watching the news when a story about the missing girl came on. Tammy told him that she'd seen the girl and the car. He told the aunt, and she told me."

"They didn't call the police themselves?"

"Detective, you have to understand that Tammy gets confused. It was very possible she saw another story about the girl, but that she never actually saw her."

"Oh, I believe that," he said.

The director cocked her head in confusion before looking up the information he wanted. "Does this have to do with the reward money Tammy will receive?" she asked as she found the necessary files. "Are you worried someone will try to get it from her?"

"Something like that."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," she said.

Brass raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "Why not? That's a lot of money, and from what I hear, Tammy's, well…"

"She's legally incompetent," the director stated frankly. "She has trouble with simple tasks. Financial dealings are well beyond her abilities."

"So, Tammy won't have access to the reward money," Brass said in relief. That meant the girl was unlikely to be in danger, since she couldn't be forced or tricked to withdraw the money. _If the kidnapper knows that_, he thought darkly.

"No. After her parents died, the insurance money went into a trust fund for her. It wasn't a lot, but it provides enough to cover Tammy's expenses. The reward will go into the same account."

"Do you have access to it?"

"Me? No. I know her grandparents do. A family friend was listed in case something happened to the grandparents, or if some money was needed while they're out of town visiting relatives or something along those lines."

"And who is that?" he asked. If the kidnapper used Tammy, he needed a way to get the money from her, and the grandparents didn't sound like possible murder suspects.

"Oh, what is his name?" the director mused. "He came to Tammy's birthday party last year. Victor, Victor…"

"Dvorak?"

She jumped at his urgent prodding. "Yes, that's it. He's a mechanic or something."

"He was," Brass said, taking the printout and leaving hurriedly. The motive for Dvorak's murder had taken on a deeper meaning.

_TBC _


	21. Chapter 21

**Quiet Desperation  
Summary: **When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.  
**A/N: **It's done. Yep – it's finished. Caput. Finis. There ain't no more! Thanks to all who've enjoyed this story.  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Disclaimer:** It's a miserably rainy day, and if I owned the rights to this show, I'd be somewhere tropical.

* * *

**Chapter 21**

Arriving at her apartment, Sara deposited her bag on the desk, running her hands through her hair as she let out a long sigh. That brought the acrid stench of smoke to her attention, and she eyed the bathroom longingly. She'd spent the last part of the shift working with Greg going over the evidence recovered from the burnt remains of Dvorak's house. About all she accomplished was ending up smelling like a chimney.

As Greg noted, things weren't making a lot of sense. They found the box of damning evidence in Jesse Patrick's home, but there was nothing to link him to it. No stray hairs, no fingerprints, no record of him ever buying any of it. Some of it, like the video camera, was common, sold in any department store or pawnshop in the city. But the cryptography reference book wasn't; not even the university bookstores kept in stock, and no shop in the city had ever placed a special order for it. There were online sources, but Patrick never used a credit card, check or bank order to purchase it.

It was possible he had someone else order the book, or he found it in another town or in some sort of second-hand shop, but she was starting to think someone else had set him up. Someone in his family was a likely source; from what they had learned, he wasn't popular after distancing himself from their criminal activities. Combined with his sudden disappearance, she feared he was a scapegoat – one who had literally been sacrificed.

The lack of evidence and leads frustrated her. As much as she wanted to retain her composure, this case was personal. She wanted to find the bastard who orchestrated Rachel's ordeal. Sitting down, she forced herself to calm down, knowing Grissom would be on the lookout for any signs of distress. His ability to emotionally detach himself from cases helped greatly, but it also left him unable to understand how others remained professional even when it affected them personally.

She came out of her reverie when the knock came, and a happy grin formed despite her work annoyances. It grew lopsided as Grissom struggled into her apartment, both arms loaded down with packages.

"Uh, Griss, are you planning on building a chicken coop to get the eggs for breakfast? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that's a violation of my lease," she teased, shaking her head when he declined her offer to help with the bags.

"I wasn't sure what you had," he answered kindly. "I know you don't like to cook."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to bring a kitchen with you." She watched as he started unloading flour, sugar, tea bags, baking soda and various measuring devices. "You know, when you said you were bringing breakfast, I was expecting bagels or something."

"I think this falls in the 'something' category."

Chuckling, she stepped closer to thank him for sending lunch to the lab, but his nose wrinkled as he continued to place items on the counter. Shrugging apologetically, she said, "I reek. I know. There's iced tea in the fridge. I'm going to grab a quick shower."

"Take your time."

"Hey, I don't smell that bad!"

Grissom looked over the top of his glasses with an amused expression. "I'll get breakfast started while you're showering. Do you have any bowls?"

"You didn't bring any?" she asked innocently, grinning openly as he shot her a mock-pout. After showing him where various items were located, she headed off to the bathroom.

When she came out later, a pleasant aroma greeted her. Entering the kitchen, her mouth dropped in astonishment. Various fruits lay in a heap on the counter. A pitcher of fresh orange juice stood next to a bottle of real maple syrup, and Grissom was pouring batter into a brand-new waffle iron.

"You're making waffles. From scratch?" she asked in delight. Going to his side, she kissed his cheek quickly. "And thanks for lunch."

"You're welcome. And you like waffles. They're what you usually order for breakfast," he added when she tilted her head quizzically.

"You pay attention to what I order?"

Glancing her way, he gave her a half-grin. "I'm afraid not to."

Sara dropped her head, finally looking up with a slight blush. "I deserved that. But you didn't have to go to this much expense," she said, waving her hands to indicate the assorted items. He had probably spent more on this one meal than she spent in a week on groceries. "I just get the frozen ones."

"I'm not feeding you something out of a box."

Smiling, she took some of the fruit and headed to the sink to wash it. "You have something against convenience?"

"It depends," he answered seriously. "Food is one of the three essential pleasures of life. Along with sleep and sex, it's necessary for the species to survive. It's enjoyable for a reason; it's meant to be savored, not rushed through with things that taste worse than the boxes they come in."

"Food, sleep and sex," she said, flashing him a toothy grin. "You're a package deal. Bonus."

"At least this is something I can do for you three times a day."

"Well, we don't have time for the other," she answered mischievously. "Unless they were catnaps."

He smiled, but Sara noticed the way he fiddled with the waffle iron. Fighting back a groan, she realized he was serious. She knew the age difference bothered him, but this was silly. Walking back to his side, she placed a hand on his arm.

"You don't really think I want to have sex with you three times a day?" she asked, her disbelief in the forefront.

His eyebrow climbed up his forehead as his eyes swiveled her way.

"That came out so very, very wrong," she said, dropping her chin to his shoulder. He didn't relax, so she wrapped her hands about his, squeezing it affectionately.

"I meant that I'm not a nympho. Don't get me wrong. It's good. I mean really good," she said, pausing for emphasis. "But this," she said, nodding at the feast he had fixed. "No guy has ever made me breakfast before. Forget going to this much trouble."

He bobbed his head in a non-committal manner, and she tightened her grip on his hand. "Griss, I'm serious. You have no idea how special you're making me feel."

He turned slightly, kissing her forehead tenderly. "You are special."

"So are you," she said earnestly before grinning. "Besides, compared to my social life since I came to Vegas, three times a year would be a lot."

"So I've almost reached my annual quota."

She nudged his arm playfully when she saw the hint of a grin. "Hey, I don't expect it three times a day. Doesn't mean I'm going to kick you out of my bed."

He gave her a grateful look before removing the finished waffle, placing it in the oven with a waiting pile and pouring more batter into the iron.

"Uh, just how much do you think I eat?"

"I've never made this recipe before. I didn't know if it could be halved. I put some ice cream in the freezer. We can use the leftovers for dessert at dinner."

"Tell me you didn't buy the stuff to fix it with." She smiled warmly when he shrugged again, swearing that his chest puffed slightly. Stepping away, she returned to preparing the fruit. From time to time, she stopped to observe him, a smile forming automatically whenever she did so. For all the distance he placed around himself, when he let someone in, it was amazing.

So when he finally spoke, he surprised her.

"Did you ever regret moving to Vegas because of me?"

"I think the end result was worth it," she answered vaguely.

Taking the last waffle out, he placed it in the oven with the others and crossed his arms as he stared at her. "Do you always evade questions?"

"I thought that was my line," Sara quipped, but he continued to watch her patiently. Letting out a sigh, she mimicked his position. "You mean besides the very second I accepted your offer?"

His eyes opened in shock. "What?"

"I thought I was insane," she said with a self-deprecating chortle. "There I was, with a good job, independent, making the most out of my life, and I dropped everything. I didn't know if you felt anything for me, but I was willing to change my whole world on the chance you did. It wasn't exactly a logical decision."

"I'm glad you made it," he said, licking his lips nervously, "but what about the other times?"

"You mean when you were acting like an ass?" she asked, ignoring his hurt wince. "I thought that I'd been really stupid. But it wasn't a total loss; I did get a better job."

"You don't have to give it up."

Sara frowned at the conversation's new tangent. "There isn't any other crime lab around here. If you quit, that's it."

"No, it's not. I can get another job. I could teach."

"None of the local universities have forensics programs."

Grissom shook his head. "I'm qualified to teach the undergraduate biology classes. Or evidence collection to the criminal justice majors."

"You could, but there's no challenge in that. Most of the students would be taking the courses because they're required, not because they wanted to learn. You'd get bored," she pointed out softly.

"There's that new lab you told me about in Henderson. I could work there."

"It's a private lab, Grissom. Same tests all the time. No experiments. You'd never get into the field. You'd have to do paperwork all the time. That'd be worse than the university for you."

"Do you want to move from Vegas?" he finally asked half-exasperated.

"No, I don't. I like it here. I have some friends. But I told you, I'm not risking what we have on a long-distance relationship."

"And I'm telling you we don't have to do that," he said softly, crossing the room and resting his hands on her shoulders. His eyes twinkled as he tilted his head. "And as much as I hate to admit it, Greg was right."

"About?" she asked.

"My finances," he answered with a self-conscious throat clearing. "I always knew that there were things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go. I've been saving for that time ever since I started working. Even if I never worked again, I have enough stashed away for us to live on until my retirement starts."

"Oh," she said, startled by his phrasing.

"If you want to stay here, we can. There are always the lectures I'm paid to give. If I get too bored, I can still consult. Or work on some textbooks. If you want to go back to the San Francisco lab, that's fine."

"Uh."

"You don't even have to work if you don't want to. Or you can be an interior decorator or learn to cook," he joked. "We won't be rich, but we'll be comfortable."

"Uh, slow down," she insisted, smiling to show him that she wasn't upset. At least she didn't think she was upset. It didn't seem like he was implying that he intended to support her, more like he was over-anxious to please her. Never seeing him like this before, she decided to stick with the obvious. "You, uhm, you saved that money to follow your dreams."

"Reality is much better."

"Ye-ah." Sara tried to think of a response, stunned by his offer. She loved him, was willing to do whatever it took to be with him, but she was leery of making too drastic of a change too soon. He was angry at the lab, and she didn't want him making any decisions he'd regret later.

He reached out to caress her cheek. "You don't have to say anything now."

"I don't think I know what to say."

"Just know that the option exists." Breaking contact, he nodded over his shoulder. "Ready to eat."

"Yeah." Sara gave her head a shake, still mildly shocked. His eager offer to drop everything didn't help allay her fears about his mental state. Sitting down to breakfast, he asked about the case as he served her, making sure her glass was always full and that she had a sample of everything.

"You don't have to try so hard," she said softly when he offered to make coffee.

The nervous way he pursed his lips almost made her smile, but his underlying tension killed any humor in the scene. After a bit, he slouched back in the chair and let out a long breath. "You make it sound like I have a choice."

"Of course you do."

He didn't answer, at least not verbally, but the openly emotional look he directed her way conveyed his feelings. She recalled his words to Lurie, and she understood that this wasn't a causal relationship for him. He feared it would end badly, and he was doing anything he could think of to keep her happy. It was touching, but it was also unnecessary.

"I'm in this for the long haul," she said reassuringly.

"I take it my waffles were good."

Sara bit down her irritation at how quickly he retreated, and she reminded herself he was new to this. "They were excellent. But I wouldn't care if they sucked. Your making them for me was sweet."

"I guess the waffle iron was a good investment then," he said, letting out a small huff when Sara finally rolled her eyes. He rubbed his hand over his beard for a moment before continuing slowly. "I'm not good with people. I know I mess things up. But I want to do the things I know how to do."

"I appreciate it more than you know. But I want you to be happy, too," she said.

"I am," he answered, fixing her with a steady gaze. "I don't remember being this happy before."

"Same here. If working in another lab is the answer to keeping you happy, then we'll move."

Grissom let out a huff. "But we don't have to."

"And you don't have to give up everything – your job, your plans for the future – for me."

To her surprise, he chuckled as he took their empty plates to the sink. "You know, in order for a compromise to work, someone has to accept the other person's offer."

She started to tell him to practice what he preached, but she held back. For all his attention, he was still hurting. Chatting casually, they quickly cleaned the kitchen. Sara poured them both a glass of iced tea, trying to discreetly judge his mood while she sliced a lemon.

She worried that he was still uncertain, but she didn't know what to say to make him feel more at ease. Physically, she knew what would help, but given their prior conversation, she didn't want to risk embarrassing him by suggesting something he wasn't up to. Taking his glass to where he stood wiping down a counter, she wondered what he did to relax. They still had a lot to learn about each other.

"What do you usually do when you get home?" she asked.

"Feed my bugs. Eat, if I didn't grab something earlier. Maybe watch some television. It depends on what my schedule is… was."

She cringed at his hurt tone, but kept her voice level. "The remote's on the coffee table. I'll finish up in here. Go on," she urged softly, using one hand to gently shove him towards the living room as she picked up an unopened bag with the other.

"Those are paint samples," he said, waving off her hand and ignoring the resulting smirk.

A few minutes later, he held out his hand when she walked over, frowning as she tossed a pillow against his side. Settling against him, she picked up his arm and draped it over her shoulders. She then stretched her legs along the length of the couch and opened the bag of paint chips.

"Did you take one of every sample?" she asked as she took out the thick stack.

"Uh, huh."

"It'd help if you'd tell me what colors you like."

"I really don't care."

She leaned her head back to glare up at him. "You're not narrowing the selection any."

"That's what you're for."

Letting out a dramatic sigh, she started flipping through the chips with a grin. "The things I do for killer waffles."

* * *

Brass entered the Interrogation Room impatiently, making a show for the already nervous looking young man sitting there. Physically, he resembled the other members of the Patrick family, but his demeanor was a polar opposite. Then again, he was also considered smart by the family standards.

"So, Jesse, you didn't make a big getaway after all," Brass said with an exaggerated smile. "Not as smart as you think you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters you can tell me all about the box of evidence we found at your place."

"Evidence of what?" he asked, curious but not too worried.

Brass noted the reaction calmly. The Patrick family made it a habit to leave incriminating evidence in the homes of other people, so he had to consider that possibility. He also knew the CSIs thought the box was questionable, but over the years, he'd learned that things didn't always add up neatly. Crooks took extraordinary steps to protect themselves in some ways, but then turned around and did something incredibly stupid.

"The kidnapping of Rachel Mathers and two murders," he said.

"The girl on the news? No way! Like I told the cops, I was with my girlfriend since last Monday in Pahrump on vacation."

"Sure you were."

"Man," he said, letting out a long breath. "Did my cousins do something stupid? This is the type of shit they pull. I don't hang with them, get it?"

Brass gave a sarcastic nod of his head. "Not even your cousin Malcolm or Uncle Trucker?"

"Those losers? No! The only time I ever saw them was when they came around Uncle Vic's shop. They spent a lot of time there this past year. I don't know why. He didn't like…"

"Your Uncle Vic?" he interrupted. "Are you talking about Victor Dvorak?"

"Yeah."

"Now, that's really funny. Victor didn't mention you were his nephew."

"I'm not. Not really. I mean, he and my Aunt Crystal never got married, but they were together forever."

Brass leaned back in his chair, eyeing the younger man closely. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know," Jesse answered, looking embarrassed.

"Why do I think there's a great story involved here?"

"You know Uncle Vic was clean, right? Well, Crys always wanted things, and he couldn't buy it, 'cause it was too pricey. She bitched at him to join in the family, you know, chop cars and stuff."

"And he wouldn't?"

"No. Don't tell him I told you, but Vic is kinda claustrophobic. I think he was afraid of going to prison. And I guess Crys finally got pissed enough to finally leave him, and she wiped out his bank account, hocked everything he had that was worth anything."

"Would anyone in your family know how to find her?" Brass asked urgently. If she knew about Dvorak's guardianship to Tammy, it would be too tempting a target to pass. Especially with forgers in the family.

"I don't know, man. Last I heard, she skipped town, went somewhere in Texas. Don't know why. Vic never reported it."

Brass rubbed his chin as he considered different scenarios. Dvorak never mentioned his relationship to Jesse, so there was some reason he wanted that a secret. The obvious one was that he was under investigation, and he didn't want to be associated with a known criminal gang. Or maybe he was trying to protect the kid, or trying to salvage what was left of his pride. Something was off, though, and that always made him testy.

"Dvorak also never said you were on vacation," he said, hoping to get more information.

"What?" Jesse exclaimed, for the first time clearly upset. "It was his place. He gave me the time off after me and Kari had a fight, said to make it up to her."

Now he knew something was fishy. "Uh, huh. So, your Aunt Crystal takes him to the cleaner. Leaves him busted, and he gives you over week's vacation and tells you to use his place?"

"What are you getting at, man?" he asked shortly. "Ask Vic yourself. He'll tell you."

Brass leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "Well, you know, I'd really, really like to do that. But he's dead."

The young man's reaction was immediate and intense. Brass had seen plenty of suspects over the years, and if this kid was faking it, he deserved an Oscar.

"What? When? I, can I see him? God, why didn't you tell me?"

"Here," he said, passing him a box of tissues. "He was killed when his house caught fire. It was arson."

Jesse blinked several times, giving his head a shake as if he hadn't heard correctly. "What was he doing there?"

"Why wouldn't he be at his own home?" Brass asked in confusion.

"Crys trashed it. Clogged the upstairs tub and flooded the place. The contractor said it'd take weeks to repair it all."

"Where was he staying then?"

"My old place. I've been living with Kari. I moved in with her, and Vic took over my rent. That's why he let us stay at his…"

Brass got out of his chair in a rush, really wishing he had a bottle of Scotch. "Do you have a picture of your aunt? We really need to find her."

* * *

"Hey, Sara!" Nick called out as he entered the hallway. She stopped outside the break room and waited until he joined her. "You look beat."

"I am," she admitted grudgingly. "Just got back from the hospital."

"How is Rachel?"

"Not good. The doctors had to amputate her left leg earlier this evening. The right leg isn't doing much better."

"Hey, she's alive. Don't forget that."

"I know," Sara sighed. "I talked to her parents. They paid the reward already."

"What? Didn't they care that it might go to the kidnapper?"

"No, they didn't. All they care about is that Rachel is back. It's, it's like this broke them. They were full of anger before, but now? They're shells. I guess it's shock. I don't know."

"What about Tammy? We haven't found her yet," Nick said angrily, but she held up her hand for him to stop.

"I told them that. They said she was going to some horse camp in Arizona. It's setup for the disabled. Her grandparents told the Kenyons they always wanted to send her there, but they never had the money for it before. Brass has someone looking into it. And we've contacted the bank about blocking the account, but we won't hear anything until morning."

He shook his head, letting out an irritated grunt as he poured them each a cup of coffee. "Are the Kenyons going to drop their complaint against Grissom?"

"I didn't ask."

"Really?" he said, noting the brief glare directed his way. Nick's natural inclination was to offer to help, but he suspected neither of his extraordinarily private colleagues would appreciate it.

He also suspected both of them needed the help, whether they wanted it or not.

"Look, I know it's none of my business, but…"

"Nick," Sara pleaded. "Don't. Please don't go there."

"We don't know the details, but give us some credit," he whispered softly. "It's a building full of investigators. It's not hard to figure out what's going on. And we know it's bogus."

"Look, I don't know what you think you know but, don't start anything."

"Whoa now, I'm on your side, okay? I'm not starting anything."

"Sorry, Nick. This has been rough," she said, downing her coffee quickly. She paused to shake her head as he followed her into the hallway.

"I get it," he said kindly. "How's Grissom doing?"

She looked up when she heard her name called, and gave him a wave before dashing away. "Hey, there's Cath. I have to run."

"Why was Nick asking you about Grissom?" Catherine asked as she approached.

"What's up?"

"Come into my office," she said, raising an eyebrow and making a mental note to talk to her subordinate later for details. Something was going on if the guys were asking Sara for updates on Grissom.

"What's up?" Sara repeated, forcing a smile as she dropped into a chair opposite the desk.

"Some good news for a change."

"Really?"

"I had a little chat this evening with Monique Myers and the sheriff," Catherine purred with pride, smiling when she snapped her head up in sudden interest. "Yeah, seems Myers was lying the entire time about investigating Grissom."

Sara stared dumbfounded for a moment. "You have to be shitting me."

"Nope. Ecklie and I dug up the details. Myers is a family friend of the Kenyons. She helped them when they tried to adopt Rachel, but she said Michael Kenyon's alcohol problems wouldn't be an issue."

"But it was," Sara said. "Something like that is an obvious warning sign."

"Yeah, turns out Myers knows civil rights law inside out, but she wasn't really qualified for adoption advice. The case never made it beyond the first stages."

Sitting there, her head shook slightly as she recalled all the pain, all the anguish Grissom suffered, and her anger rapidly grew. "So all of this shit was because she was trying to make it up to the Kenyons? That bitch! I'm going to…"

Catherine, thankful for her dance experience, darted around the desk and grabbed her arm before she stormed out for room. "You're going to do nothing," she said harshly.

"Are you insane? After what she put Grissom through?"

"Yes, because of what she did to him." Catherine rolled her eyes at the dangerous look directed her way. "Don't you get it? This is going to vanish. Officially, Grissom is on two week's vacation. Nothing is on his record. Nothing will ever come out about this."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes," Catherine insisted. "Think about it. If Myers brings it up, she faces disbarment and a civil suit. A criminal case if you go after her for getting into your personnel files. If the sheriff tries to bring it up, it's another scandal for him, and he can't afford that. Trust me, neither of them are going to ever mention this again."

"And that's it?" she asked hoarsely, feeling more helpless than she had since childhood. "They made his life hell, and we're supposed to pretend it never happened. To let them get away with doing this to him."

"Basically. Besides, what are you going to do? If you complain, Grissom's career is finished. Are you going to quit in protest?" Catherine did a quick double take when Sara shrugged. "Wait a minute – that wasn't a suggestion!"

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

She pulled her back into the office. "Look, I get it. Grissom is upset. He gave everything he had to the lab, and the sheriff dumped on him. It's not fair, but life never is. He loves this job. You know that. I know that. Give him time to calm down."

"Cath, it's not that simple. I don't know if he's going to want to come back."

"Like I said, he's pissed. Has every reason to be. But in a few days, he's going to realize how much he misses it. And the sheriff is going to realize how much Grissom means to the lab. He'll owe him for this."

"Yeah, so much that he's forcing him to take two weeks off," Sara said sarcastically.

"The vacation will do him good," Catherine replied. "And he was still insubordinate. Don't look at me that way. I know he had every reason to be pissed off. But blowing up at the sheriff wasn't the way to express it."

"It's not right."

"No, it's not. But it's all we have. If Grissom decides he'd rather throw his reputation out the window and pursue a case against them, then he'll get all the support he wants. But I really don't think he'd do that to himself or to the lab."

"Probably not," Sara agreed. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Grissom gets to keep his job and his reputation. In the end, isn't that all that really matters?"

"Don't you mean that's what we have to settle for?"

Catherine opened the door to her office. "Come on, I think there's some root beer in the break room. I hid it behind one of Grissom's experiments. Besides, we need him to come back so he can clean out that mess."

They updated each other on the case as they went down the hallway. When they turned the corner, they were surprised to see Dr. Robbins hobbling towards them.

"Hey, Doc! What brings you to the land of the living?" Sara called out in a friendly manner.

"Sara, Catherine," he said in greeting. "Or should I call you Buffy?"

"Only spikes I have are on my shoes. Did you find a vampire?" Catherine asked.

"Wrong species of the undead," Doc said. "I'm thinking a zombie."

"Huh?" the two women said in concert.

"That dead mechanic you brought in earlier? I don't know who's on my slab, but it's not your mechanic. That body had already been embalmed."

* * *

Grissom was checking the paint cans skeptically when Sara arrived. He knew immediately that something was wrong. Shift just ended, which meant she left the lab early, something she only did when ordered to go home and rest. Her entire demeanor suggested barely controlled rage.

"What's wrong?" he asked as soon as he closed the door.

"Where do you want me to start?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering how to proceed when she let out a sigh, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

"The bastard got away," she spit out. "It was Dvorak."

"He was dead," Grissom said in confusion.

"It was an embalmed body. We think it was one that was stolen from the hospital a few weeks ago."

"Sit down," he said, leading her to his breakfast bar and opening his fridge. He stared at the bottles of beer and water, finally taking out the water although he suspected she'd prefer the other.

"Dvorak's ex wiped him out. She was a member of the Patrick family." She explained that he'd apparently snapped after years of grief, and that Dvorak's original plan was to frame the members of the family responsible.

He'd taken over the kidnapping plans after Trucker died, using Wilcox's accounting skills to set up additional bank accounts known only to them. They created evidence implicating the Patricks, and it was stored away to plant before he and Wilcox fled the country. The fire and the embalmed body were an attempt to make it look he was dead so no one would think to look for him.

"Brass found a storage unit that Dvorak had rented in his ex's name. I guess he thought we'd eventually figure it out, 'cause he left a note there. 'Rachel was never supposed to get hurt.' Like that makes everything okay," she said, swearing angrily.

Grissom leaned against the counter, resting his hand over hers. "He was the guardian on Tammy Frakes' account. When he realized Rachel was still alive, he convinced Tammy to tell the police that story. Then he transferred most of the reward money to another offshore account we didn't know about. He's a nice guy, though. He left her a hundred thousand dollars from the reward," she said acidly

"You said he got away."

"The guy at the bus station recognized his picture. He bought a ticket to Mexico. You know how good they are about extraditing criminals. He's gone."

"You did your best."

"And it wasn't enough."

"Let it go, Sara. Don't let it consume you," he urged softly.

"That's not all," she said, taking a deep breath. "You're cleared."

"I am?"

Despite his apparent disinterest, she saw the facial tic. She told him everything Catherine had said earlier. His lack of reaction, neither angry nor relieved, made her uneasy.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I hate the way this turned out. It's not fair to you. I want to do something, but I don't know how without your reputation getting trashed in the process."

Grissom started to dismiss her concerns, but he noticed how upset she was. Justice wasn't a vague notion to Sara; it was a defining characteristic for her. She always fought for it, pushed herself to provide it to the victims. Now she had two cases where she felt she'd failed, and he wished he knew how to comfort her.

Lacking the words, he pulled her off the stool and into his arms. Drawing her close, he held her tightly, gently swaying their bodies.

* * *

Washing the paint from the brushes, Grissom scanned his townhouse with an appreciative eye. The color combinations Sara chose worked, even if he would never have chosen such rich hues himself. Smiling, he watched as she touched up tiny details with a zeal that bordered on obsession.

She hadn't spoken of either the case or his 'vacation' since the previous morning, but painting did seem to relax her, despite spending the last twenty minutes on a small section of trim. Finally, she seemed satisfied and stepped back to examine the work.

"It looks good," he said, taking the brush from her hand.

"I'm just thorough," she said, smirking as he started washing the brush. When a phone started ringing, she went searching for her purse. One look at the text message, and she went back to the kitchen.

"Uh, Catherine said to tell you to check your voice mail."

"Really?"

"Well, there were some obscenities added in."

"Why would I want to answer my voice mail when I'm on vacation?" he asked innocently.

"Maybe it's something important?" she suggested.

"It's not."

"When did you get all psychic on me?"

Grissom gave her an infectious grin. "It's about the Kavic grant. I had an e-mail earlier from the committee."

Sara stood there, opening her mouth and closing it silently. She knew the lab was applying for the grant, but that it was more a prestige thing than a necessity. She also knew Grissom was the reason the lab was the prime candidate for it.

"You're making the lab sweat it out," she finally said, not quite believing it.

"I am?"

"You are," she decided. "This is your idea of teaching the sheriff a lesson. You know they won't get that grant unless you personally sign off on it."

"That would be conceited of me to believe that."

"Cut the bullshit, Grissom! I'm not falling for it."

He gave her an contrite nod, but he also made no effort to return the lab's calls. Catherine was always telling him he needed to learn to be more politic, and this seemed the perfect way, and he told Sara the same.

"Have you decided if you're going to go back?" she asked delicately.

Grissom rolled his shoulders, focusing his attention on washing the brushes. As much as it bothered him to admit it, he was furious. His angry outburst at the sheriff had been unprofessional, but so was they way he'd been treated. He was ready to leave Vegas, to take Sara and explore the world.

But she wasn't.

She wanted to stay here, and he was determined to make her happy. While he didn't need to work, they both knew he'd probably grow bored if he stayed home all day. Consulting or lecturing were his best bets, but both were part-time and involved being away from Sara. Right now, he didn't want to do that.

Staying at the lab was an easy solution, but he wasn't sure it was the right one. For years, he'd taken the easy way out, isolating himself from potential problems. That hadn't worked well, but he had to admit this wasn't exactly the same type of situation. He believed Sara wanted him to return the lab, even if she'd never came out and said so. If he went back and changed his mind later, it would be simple enough to resign.

"Hey."

His head snapped up as her arms wrapped around his waist. "You still with me?"

"Always," he answered, wiping his hands clean before hugging her. His eyes wandered over her face, memorizing every detail again. He still had trouble believing she was his, that she'd chosen him. As long as she was with him, nothing else seemed that important. "Since I'm on a forced vacation, why don't you take some time off?"

"The lab's already shorthanded," she said softly. "Can't leave poor Greg there all by himself."

"Why not? It's not our fault that Ecklie took half the shift away and didn't replace them. Maybe that'll convince the sheriff to fix things."

"I think you're developing some sort of passive-aggressive thing. Or you're still pissed off."

"Probably," he admitted. "But I still want us to get away."

"If we do that, we can kiss away any chance of keeping this discreet."

"You know, eventually people are going to figure it out."

"Yeah, but until then, I kinda like having our secret," she said.

"Okay."

She watched sadly as he returned to cleaning the brush, wishing she had been able to do more, both for Rachel and Grissom. Going around his living room, she made sure they had closed the cans and gathered all the brushes. Finding everything done, she joined him at the sink to wash the paint from her hands.

"The fans will help everything dry and get the smell down. Why don't we get cleaned up and head back to my place?"

"We can't do that?"

"Why not?" she said, her eyebrow going up as he pulled his t-shirt off.

"I have an annual quota to fill."

_**The End**_


End file.
